Anathema
by Broken-Vow
Summary: Through heartbreak and trial, Christine must learn to trust and grow under the guidance of a sinister and deadly guardian.
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks for stopping by, everyone! I feel like I'm finally ready to start posting this after **_**three **_**complete overhauls and revision, and I hope it goes over well. **

**I do have a warning or two before it goes any further. This story might be my most adult story—but not in a sexually explicit way or anything. I mean that it will deal with mature issues and probably some uncomfortable situations. But it shouldn't be bad enough to merit an M rating. If you feel otherwise, please let me know. **

**Also, in regards to characters: I'm finding that most people have a bigger problem with Christine than with Erik. It's interesting how so many people can excuse his violence and other behavioral problems, and yet so many are quick and more than willing to jump on Christine if she has character flaws. I'm trying to portray Christine as the character I promised you (hint hint: I promised you a "very childlike" Christine). She is not a perfect person. She has huge problems and lots of difficulties to get past, and that's the entire point of the story. I'm not claiming that I'll do it perfectly. I know I've probably already lost many readers because of the way I've portrayed Christine, and yet I find that I'm really attached to her as this kind of character. She has to grow up and learn to deal with things, just like everyone else. The only thing I'll ask is that you are patient with her. She needs time and experience, and that's exactly what I'm trying to give her over the course of the story. **

**That's all I have for now. Please enjoy, and please leave a review!**

* * *

_Anathema_

She dreamed of her days in Sweden.

There was green and blue—the meeting of the sky and the earth. It was a forever line…a rolling, forever line, and she felt that if she continued to run, she would somehow find the meeting point. She would be able to touch that sky and still feel the earth under her bare feet.

Sometimes she tried it. She would run across the hills, the wind ripping into her, pushing her back, tangling her curls and making her eyes water. She would go until her legs were shaking, until she was heaving for breath, and then she would lie down in the green grass and sleep under the bright sun.

The winter would blind her. The snow would be so white, so pure, and she would have to squint against that perfection. Those days were spent making creations in the snow, tasting freshly-fallen flakes on her tongue and feeling her nose and fingers eventually go numb.

Those were the days she dreamed of—she yearned for. The simplicity was so overwhelming. The happiness was constant. She could hear her father, his voice, calling to her across the hills.

"_Christine. Christine_."

And she would fly back to him, back to their little house in the country.

"_Christine_."

But she was already there, wasn't she?

"Christine. Wake up."

With a grunt, she jerked herself awake, and she blinked sleepily. There was soft laughter in her ear, and she felt her cheek pressed against something warm and solid. When she inhaled, she recognized the cologne.

She groaned, long and unladylike, and the laughter came again.

"Sorry, sleepyhead."

Rubbing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths to clear her mind, and then she opened her eyes again, trying to focus. The glare of a huge television set met her eyes, and she squinted against the light. She then took stock of her body's position: curled up on a sofa, resting peacefully on a man—a good-smelling, very handsome man. She peeled her cheek away from his t-shirt and looked up to smile at him. His grin was as charming as ever.

"Did you have a nice sleep?" he asked softly, pushing away some curls that had fallen over her face. She nodded, still feeling a little too drowsy to manage words at the moment, and she yawned and then settled back on him. His heartbeat thumped in her ear. It was soothing. After a few moments of blinking herself to a state of some coherence, she managed to mumble,

"Did I sleep long?"

"Most of the movie," was the response, but there was only warmth and affection in the voice.

"Sorry," she said, grasping the stomach of his shirt—like a little girl. "I was just so tired…and you didn't even want to watch it in the first place…"

"Heh. It was fine. You were really tired, like you said, so I understand. I'm just surprised you made it to about thirty minutes." He rubbed her arm.

She grunted in response and nuzzled farther into his chest, feeling warm, safe, and protected. Then she asked reluctantly, "What time is it?"

"A little bit past midnight."

Another groan issued from her mouth. "I should go home."

There was a pause, and then the voice came, somewhat hesitantly this time, "You could stay here tonight."

"I should go home and make sure that Dad's okay," she said. "Thanks for the offer, though."

"Anytime, really. Whenever you need it."

Finally, she sat up, pushing her mass of curls behind her ears and shoulders. Reluctantly, she stood, and he followed suit.

"Let me drive you home," he said, reaching for his car keys on the table.

"No—no," she said. "I'll take the bus."

"Ha," he said facetiously. "No way. Not at this hour. Only crazies ride the bus this late. Come on, Christine. Let me drive you home."

Though she protested for another minute or so, eventually she gave in, and he led the way out of the apartment, locking it firmly behind him. He smiled at her in the hallway and took her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers securely. They rode down the elevator, and she leaned her head against his shoulder tiredly. He was so warm, and he always smelled so good.

"Thanks again," she murmured into his arm.

"No problem," he said graciously. "I always want to make sure you're safe."

He kept her hand in his and led the way over to his shining BMW. Christine never ceased to be a little embarrassed by the differences in their social standings. She had no car to speak of—no car to dream of. The car he led her to was only last year's model, still in perfect condition. He opened the door for her, climbed in on the other side, and drove out of the parking garage.

As they drove, she looked at him and couldn't help but smile a little. Raoul de Chagny was a good boyfriend—a very good boyfriend. Perhaps she only thought that because she had never had any other boyfriends to compare him to, but she knew she was right. He was everything a girl would want in a boyfriend: handsome, charming, kind, funny…rich.

She shook her head a little. Of course she wasn't dating him for his money. She had never accepted a cent of charity money from him, ever (even if sometimes she desperately needed it). Though Raoul often protested that he just wanted to help her and her father get by, she refused everything he had tried to give. It shamed her, humiliated her.

He reached over and took her hand again, carefully steering with his other free hand.

"You're quiet," he said, squeezing her fingers. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." She yawned. "Still tired, I think…"

She leaned back on the headrest and stared out of the window. The city zoomed by, the streetlights and stoplights creating glares on the window. Some lights flickered by in office buildings or in convenience stores. A few people were walking down the streets, mostly in small groups, and Christine watched them, wondering what they could be talking about, what they could be doing out so late.

"Are we still good for Friday?" Raoul then asked, breaking the silence.

"Oh." A lump of ice slid into her belly. She had been avoiding that topic. "I dunno, Raoul…"

"C'mon," he said, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. "It won't be so bad. I promise. And if you really hate it after an hour or so, we can leave."

Still, she was hesitant. "I just—I don't really have anything to wear. I've never been to anything fancy like this before. Do you…really have to go?"

"Yeah," he said, frowning a little. There was disappointment in his voice. "It's important that I go. And I really wanted to take you as my date—show you off a little." He nudged her playfully. "But…if you really don't want to go…then I guess…" He trailed off.

At the first sign of unhappiness in his tone, Christine surrendered. She never wanted him unhappy with her. If he was, he would surely wake up out of whatever dream he was in and realize that there were thousands—_millions_—of other women more beautiful, elegant, and intelligent than she was.

"All right," she said. "I'll go."

"You will?" The happiness was back. "Just like that?"

"Yep," she said. "It means a lot to you, so I'll go. But…I'll look stupid, Raoul. The nicest dress I have is an old blue one that I save for special occasions."

"I'm sure it's fine," he said. He cast her a sideways glance. "Or I could take you out tomorrow after I get off work. I could buy you a really nice dress…if you wanted."

"No," she said. "No, that's really sweet of you, but I'm…fine."

He had pulled up alongside her dilapidated apartment building, and he got out and walked her to the front doors, just like the true gentleman he was.

"Thanks again for the ride," she said. "See you on Friday, I guess."

"Yeah," he agreed, and he leaned in and kissed her sweetly before she could step through the doors. Blushing just a little, she smiled in response and then hurriedly opened the door and darted through it, barely hearing his call of 'Say hi to your dad for me!'

Christine slowly walked up several flights of stairs to the fifth story, trying not to succumb to yawns once again. The apartment building was old, chipped, and constantly smelled like mold. The carpets were stiff and forever engrained with who-knew-what, and she never had the courage to walk around without some shoes on.

When she unlocked the door, she heard soft music playing, and she couldn't help but smile a little as she entered. Her father, Gustave, was asleep on the small, tattered sofa, listening to classical music on the radio. She went over and shook his shoulder softly.

"_Pappa_," she said quietly.

He inhaled swiftly as he woke, his head snapping up, and then he blinked a few times and looked at her. His thin mouth turned upward into a tired smile at the sight of her.

"_Hej_, _ängel," _he said, taking the hand that was on her shoulder.

"It is late," she said in slow English. "You should go to bed."

"Yes," he replied, and he stood, putting a hand on his back as he did so. "You…made…fun this tonight?" he then said, his English broken and heavily-accented. He flipped off the radio.

"I had fun," she said. "But we will talk tomorrow, Dad. Okay?"

"Okay," he repeated, and she wasn't sure that he understood. However, she gave him a kiss on the cheek, and he ambled off to his bedroom, rubbing the back of his neck. Christine ensured that the apartment was locked up, and then she, too, retreated to her small bed, grateful to be able to sleep uninterrupted.

The screaming of some birds right outside her small window woke her up, and she groaned and pressed her pillow over her face.

"Go away," she muttered sourly, listening to them screech. It wasn't a cheerful, lively whistle—it was the cawing and croaking of hideous city birds, engorged on garbage and the food of those who fed them in the parks.

After a few minutes, it was clear that they were _not _planning to leave, and so she rolled over and climbed out of the bed, still yawning. She was perpetually tired, it seemed. Worry and stress had created shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there before. She showered in lukewarm water, dressed in nearly threadbare clothing, and made her way to the kitchen. Gustave was trying to get the antique coffee maker to run, and Christine couldn't help but laugh a little at the sight of his frowning, irritated face.

"_God morgon_," she said, and Gustave turned around.

"This thing is broken again, Christine," he said in upset Swedish, pointing to it. She took pity on him and went over, still smiling a little.

"It just doesn't like you," she said. "You have to have the magic touch." After being shaken, hit, and clicked all over by Christine, the coffee maker beeped loudly and started.

Gustave sat down at the table with the paper (he didn't understand most of it, but Christine sensed that it gave him comfort to do something so banal and normal), and he looked at her as she opened the small, ancient refrigerator.

"_Knäckebröd_ with _kalles caviar_ please," Gustave said pleasantly.

Christine smiled indulgently. "Of course, _Pappa_." She pulled out the usual bread, jam, and yogurt and quietly fixed his breakfast while he looked at the paper.

"Do you know what I was thinking, _ängel_?" Gustave said at length.

"What?" She looked at him, licking the jam off of her fingers.

"I was thinking we could sing this afternoon. After I run some errands, I could meet you before I go to play tonight. It would be fun, don't you think so?"

Christine nodded at once, her curls bobbing wildly as she did so. "Oh—yes, _Pappa! _We haven't sung in weeks! That would be so fun. Can we go to the downtown park? The one with the ducks?"

He smiled at her. "Do we ever go anywhere else?"

She set his breakfast of toast and yogurt in front of him, poured him a large cup of coffee (like any other Swede, he drank far too much coffee, in Christine's opinion), and then set out preparing the exact same thing for herself.

As they ate, she looked at him, smiling as he brushed his equally-curly hair out of his eyes. He needed a haircut soon.

"Raoul wants me to go to some party with him on Friday night," she then said, poking at her toast, somewhat miserably.

"That should be fun," Gustave said. "He's a nice boy."

"It's some company party," Christine said unhappily. "It's going to be full of fancy, rich people in expensive couture clothes drinking fancy wines and eating hor d'oeuvres."

"Well, why are you upset?" he asked, putting his paper down and frowning. He drank some coffee. "It sounds like something fun for you to do."

"I'm going to be so out of place," she argued stubbornly, wanting to continue disagreeing with him. "People are going to laugh at me."

"Of course they won't." He picked up his paper. "You'll go and have a good time, and no one will care."

"Yes they will," she insisted, switching over to English. It made her feel, in an awful way, like she had won the argument if he couldn't make a coherent response.

"No," he said back haltingly. "You are an young and pretty and…" He thought for a moment. "Word—word. Christine. _Begåvad." _

"Talented," she supplied. "And thanks, Dad." She sighed, munching on some dry toast. "I guess we'll see."

After arranging a meeting time and place, Gustave left, and Christine cleaned up the mess from breakfast. She sighed a little. She would have loved to be going to work, but the bookstore at which she had worked had closed down almost two months ago, and she had been out of luck ever since. The interviews that she did have were few and far between. During the last one, she had become embarrassingly desperate.

"I'm sorry, Miss Dah-ee," the reedy-looking woman had said, pushing back her woefully-short resume. "It just won't work out right now."

"But—but did you see that I speak three languages?" Christine said hurriedly, pointing at the piece of paper. "English, Swedish, and French. Doesn't that count for anything?"

The woman frowned. "Maybe that would help if you were still in Europe, Miss Dah-ee. But those languages don't help here. Maybe if you spoke Spanish—or Chinese. But thanks for expressing interest."

She had been noticing that the absence of her income was damaging her small family. Her father seemed more stressed, exhausted like she was, and constantly worried. There were more struggles to meet the bills and pay for groceries. Sometimes Christine couldn't even take the bus because she was short. Of course she never told Raoul that. Though she knew he wouldn't have minded driving her home or to the store, she couldn't let him know of just how poor she really was. She had learned in school that rich people usually tended to date and marry other rich people—it was just simple nature. So if Raoul found out just _how _bad things were, he might think that she was lazy…or that her father was…

As she rode the bus to the park, she allowed the foul-smelling heaters to warm her. It was uncomfortably-hot, and she reveled in it. The fall was giving way to a cold, dry winter. Their heating in their apartment was kept at a bare minimum to keep their bills low. Absentmindedly, she played with her necklace. It had been her mother's—the only thing Christine had that had belonged to her ever-mysterious mother. Christine was oftentimes saddened that she never really knew the woman her father had been—and still was—so overwhelmingly entranced by.

She picked at her worn jeans, noticing that a hole was beginning to form in the knee. If she was careful, perhaps it wouldn't spread…though she knew it was unlikely. Her right shoe also had a small hole in the bottom, meaning if the sidewalks were wet, water immediately went right to her sock and soaked it. Her blouse was old very nearly faded, and her coat was second-hand.

However, if only her father would be happy…none of it would matter. She would be content to stay like this for the rest of her life if only _he _would be content. He tried to hide his worried looks, but he was not able to often enough. She knew, and she was terrified.

The sky was clouded-over, and she walked to the park quickly. There was a small crowd of people enjoying the barren park. A woman was jogging with her dog, a man was huddled on the bench trying to eat a sandwich, and two girls were riding their bikes. They were all she could see.

Bending over a wrought-iron fence with her forearms pressed against it and her hands clasped together, she stared out over the murky pond. There was no sign of the waddling ducks she liked to watch. It was too late in the year, and she resisted frowning a little. Once last year she had seen a swan. It had been beautiful. The edges were lined with that green stuff—she didn't remember the name. Algae or something? It looked like the pond was rotting from the outside.

Christine shivered a little against the cold gust and pulled her thin coat around her frame tighter, and then her hand moved up to clutch the golden cross necklace that was around her neck. It was now instinct to touch it—habit shaped by years of idly clutching the pendant.

She didn't have to wait long, because soon she heard footsteps, and she greeted her father with a warm hug. For a little while, they observed the pond together, speaking quietly for a few minutes. At first she tried slow English, but soon Gustave grew tired of it and began speaking in Swedish. She finally complied, always sensing the relief that he felt to be able to speak confidently in his mother language. She knew he missed Sweden more than she ever could have.

At last, he gestured to the beautiful violin he had brought with him, and she nodded. They made their way over to the grimy-looking statue in the center of the square, and Gustave set up quietly. Christine hummed a few scales to somewhat warm her voice, looking around the park. There were not many people out today, no doubt driven indoors by the gloomy overcast skies.

Gustave played three or four short pieces to warm his fingers up, and Christine arranged his open violin case in front of them, running her fingers along the smooth interior and lightly touching his extra bow. She loved the case. It smelled like rosin—like her _Pappa_.

She sang several songs, trying to keep herself cheerful in the dismal weather. Sadness would show in her singing voice—and for the songs she was singing, she didn't need that. Gustave was deliberately playing happy tunes, trying to entice people to throw some money into the case. A few people did, earning smiles and sometimes a 'thank you' from Christine.

He began the introduction to a Swedish folk song, and the words came to her lips easily. She had known this song since childhood—had probably sung it hundreds, if not thousands, of times. She glanced at him and saw that his eyes were closed. He did not need to look at the neck or the strings of his violin. He knew each movement, each sound of the song. The neck of the violin was probably indented slightly with the notes used in the piece because he played it so often.

When the wind began to pick up and her teeth began to chatter slightly between songs, Gustave at last took out the violin from under his chin and smiled at her a little. Christine gathered up the coins and bills from the case, and Gustave put it carefully into his wallet. There was no comment from either of them. They had not done well today.

After packing up the violin, Gustave picked up the case and extended his hand. Christine took it, feeling a little comforted by his warm, strong fingers wrapped around hers. Even though she was twenty years old, she enjoyed Gustave treating her like she was still a little girl. He liked holding her hand and reading stories to her and playfully tugging on her braids whenever she styled her hair like that. He enjoyed calling her pet names like _angel _or _princess _and telling her that boys were silly and, sometimes, he entered her room at night while she was getting ready for bed. He would look in her closet and peer under her bed and announce that no trolls were lurking there to entice her away into their mountain homes. It still made her giggle a bit.

As they walked, his eyes suddenly brightened, and he said in English, "For you I have a present."

"Really?" She grinned at him, and he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small plastic bag. She took it.

"_Salmiakki!_" he proudly said. Christine laughed a little. In reality, they were bite-sized black licorice and not the Swedish candy that he proclaimed it to be, but the thought was there.

"Thank you, _Pappa_. I love it." She put the package into the pocket of her coat, and he took her hand again and kept walking.

They waited several long minutes at a bus station, and Christine huddled a little closer to him for warmth. When the creaking bus pulled up, Christine took some money and paid with some of what they had earned today. Carefully holding his violin case close to his chest, Gustave followed her onto the bus, and they found empty seats. It was a while until their stop, so Christine pulled out the candies he had given to her and opened them. They weren't that good—she wasn't overly-fond of licorice, but she wanted her father to know that she really did appreciate the gesture.

"Want some?" she offered in Swedish, holding out the package. He took a few, ate one, and then nearly gagged.

"These are terrible," he said with disgust, handing them all back to her. "So much sugar! It is no wonder everyone in this country is so fat. Everything I eat here is either loaded in sugar or drenched in grease. What I wouldn't give for some _isterband _or _korv stroganoff."_ He sighed a little, as if imagining the Swedish dishes in front of him.

"Tomorrow night I'll try to make you something," she promised, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I'll need to go to the store, but I'm sure I could make you what you want."

He waved his hand. "Don't listen to me, _ängel_. I just like to complain. We are fine."

A teenage girl who had been sitting near them finally turned around and looked.

"Are you guys Russian?" she asked, her blue eyes wide. "Because I know some Russian. My boyfriend taught some to me." She had a piercing in her nose and one in her eyebrow, and her hair was dyed bright pink.

"No," Christine replied, feeling a little miffed. "We're Swedish."

"Oh." The girl smacked on some gum for a moment. "You guys don't look it. Aren't you supposed to have blonde hair and blue eyes or something?"

"No," Christine said, perhaps a little rudely.

"Whatever," the girl muttered, rolling her eyes and pulling her oversized headphones over her ears.

Gustave frowned a little. "What was that? She looks upset."

"She just asked if we were Russian," Christine said quietly, leaning her head back onto his shoulder.

"That is not offensive here, is it?" he asked, looking a little concerned.

"No, _Pappa_. We're fine. Do you want more _salmiakki_?" She teasingly held up the bag of licorice.

He laughed and kissed her forehead, and she leaned into him, feeling, for at least a moment, complete peace.


	2. Chapter 2

When Christine woke the next morning, she realized that Gustave had left early. There wasn't any note from him, but it wasn't unusual. He left early several mornings to run errands. Oftentimes he would be out all morning, but sometimes he would come back just as she was finishing breakfast.

After breakfasting, she attempted to tidy up the apartment somewhat. It required a regular upkeep, as dust and grime appeared to gather at bizarrely-fast rates. Their little apartment seemed to be splitting in half. There were large cracks in the walls and ceilings. The floor was scuffed and scratched, and the carpeted portions were worn down so much that it felt like hardwood as well. Everything in it was old, battered, and second-hand. She felt safe and yet somehow forlorn in this little dingy apartment. They were not friendly with any of their neighbors. Oftentimes Christine heard shouting and footsteps. One late night, she had heard a gunshot. Her _Pappa _had held her in her bed while she shook, and she had fallen asleep on his shoulder. It had happened a year ago, and she had never told Raoul about it. He would insist on moving them—and they could barely afford the apartment they had now.

Their neighborhood was not that respectable as well. Gustave did not like her walking home alone after dark. Sometimes it was unavoidable, but she hardly ever told him that. He was already so worried. It pained her to see him like that. She didn't want to see his brow furrow. He had permanent lines across his once-smooth forehead. In fact, his entire physical appearance seemed to have…deteriorated. He had been tall and very strong while they had lived in Europe. However, the years in America had thinned him. His clothes didn't fit him properly anymore, yet they were too poor to buy new clothing. His face was thinner, the shadows under his eyes more prominent, and his stride had less confidence. Christine hated it. She worried incessantly for him.

After cleaning the apartment and then scrubbing herself furiously in the shower to get rid of the lingering smell of cleaning chemicals and unpleasant apartment smells, Christine spent an unsuccessful afternoon job-hunting. She knew she shouldn't worry, as it would do nothing, but she did. She worried—about everything. She was fearful of what would happen—to her, to her _Pappa_, to her relationship with Raoul…She wasn't good enough. She knew it.

When she returned to the apartment to cook dinner for Gustave, she buried her face in her hands and took some deep breaths to refrain from crying, wondering why things had to be so difficult. Why wasn't her father the most celebrated violinist in the world? He was certainly talented enough. Why couldn't she get a job—or, better yet, go to school? And why did Raoul like _her_—_her_, an insignificant, poor little Swedish girl?

By the time Gustave returned from the performance, Christine had collected herself, and she presented a smiling face and a small dinner for him. Gustave, however, looked haggard, and he tiredly put away his violin and shrugged off his suit coat.

"What's wrong, _Pappa_?" she asked worriedly, putting a hand on his shoulder when he sat down at the table. He rubbed his eyes with his long musician's fingers.

"Nothing, Little Lotte. Don't worry so! Sit down and eat with me."

Although she still had the heaviness of anxiety settling in her stomach, she did as he said, and they talked quietly throughout dinner. Although he seemed pensive, Christine realized that she, too, was trying to hide her worry. They were both simply trying to make the best of their little lives, trying to hold on to each other. She knew that she was the only thing he was holding on to. After the death of his wife, he became so distraught that Christine was actually sent away to live with a distant relative for a year while he recovered from depression problems. He never drank or turned to substance abuse, but he was unable to cope for several long months. Christine remembered them as the darkest days of her life. Her relative was a mean old spinster who would not let her sing because it was "noise" and who insisted that Christine wear her hair in traditional braids and follow other old Swedish traditions.

However, when she was reunited with her father, Gustave had vowed to her that they would never be separated again. And they had not been.

After Christine cleaned up the meal, she went into her room and pulled out her fairytale book, holding it to her chest and going into the front room. Gustave had switched the radio on and was currently listening to something by Schubert. Christine leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and listened for a while. The music spoke to her—music had always spoken to her. It must have come from her parents. Gustave had told her that her mother was also a great musician. Music was in her blood, part of her very essence, and it had always been a dream of hers to sing onstage somewhere. However, the furthest she had gone was singing in the parks with her father.

"Would you like me to read to you, _prinsessa_?" he suddenly asked, startling her out of her music-induced haze. She opened her eyes and nodded, smiling slightly as he held out his hand for the book. It was a favorite tradition of hers, one that had been started since she could remember. As a small girl, she would trundle to him with her book in her arms, push it into his hands, and sit at his feet while he read. He showed her the pictures, and she remembered pointing childishly at the princes and princesses in glee.

Just as she always did, she handed him the book and sat at his feet, resting her cheek on his knee and watching while he opened the book.

"Which one tonight, Little Lotte?" he said, flipping through the pages.

"Maiden Swanwhite and Maiden Foxtail!" she replied instantly, having already picked out the story when she picked up the book. Gustave managed the chuckle good-heartedly, and he read in his deep, warm, rich voice. It soothed her and warmed her, and she closed her eyes as she listened.

When he finished, they sat in content silence for a while, listening to the radio play softly in the background. Christine sighed and settled her cheek more firmly onto Gustave's knee. As she thought of what was required for tomorrow, she groaned childishly.

"Tomorrow is Raoul's party," she said. "I don't want to go…"

Gustave laughed tiredly and pulled on her curls lightly. "You'll go, and you'll have too much fun. You don't know how glad it makes me to see that you've found a good man, Christine. He will make you very happy."

"_Pappa!_" she said, sitting up and hitting his leg playfully. "We're only dating! You make it sound like we're getting married!"

There was the old twinkle in his eye, and she adored it. "From the way that he looks at you, I would think that that is _exactly _what he has on his mind. He's—what's the expression? Heels over head?"

"Head over heels," she corrected, grinning a little in spite of herself.

"Right," he affirmed. "I'm just glad that I didn't have to chase away any trolls in disguise. You're like your _moder_—picked right the very first time." As he said that, a sadness overcame him, and the twinkle was lost. There was silence, and Christine looked at the floor awkwardly. She hardly ever knew how to react when he talked about her mother.

After a long moment, he sighed a little and rubbed his stubbly face. "I'm tired, Lotte. I think I'll go to bed now."

"Thanks for the story, _Pappa_," she murmured, watching him stand and walk away, leaving the book on the seat of the chair. She took it and held it to her. It was the first present he had given to her after she went back to him following his sickness. She treasured it.

After another minute on the floor, she rose as well, and she turned off all the lights and ensured the door was locked before heading to bed herself.

* * *

The next evening, she was critically looking at herself in the too-small, cracked mirror that was hanging crookedly in the tiny bathroom. Gustave was getting ready to head to the performance, and he kept laughing at her.

"You look beautiful, _ängel_," he said continually, but she would not listen, and she kept scurrying about the apartment, alternately groaning and whimpering and crying out in frustration.

"Stupid hair!" she shouted dramatically. "Stupid, stupid hair!"

Christine tried not to cry in frustration, but she knew that everything on her was a disaster. Her blue dress didn't fit her quite right—it was secondhand, and she could in no way afford to have it tailored. The dress was exceedingly simple, with hardly any embellishments or frills. She had tied a ribbon around the waist to try to give it some flair, but it only made her look more like a little girl. She was wearing fake diamonds—and they looked fake, she knew. Her shoes were old, scuffed and a boring black, and they were only one or two-inch heels. Her hair was not cooperating. It continued to spring out of every bun, coif, braid, or ponytail she attempted. Sometimes it worked fine but not that evening. She pulled on it in desperation and rubbed in more mousse, hoping to manage it in the ten minutes she had left.

Gustave stopped in the doorway and watched her, smiling a little as he buttoned his cuffs.

"You look—"

"Don't say it!" she snarled. "I look awful…I can't believe I agreed to this…"

He paused, raising an eyebrow, and he shrugged before walking to his bedroom. She heard him begin to warm up a little, and she tried not to dissolve as she examined herself. She wanted to have some kind of pretty shawl or wrap to cover her dress, but the only thing she had to ward off the chilly air was her old coat. For a moment, she wished that she _had _let Raoul buy her a dress—but then she knew that she wouldn't have been able to even wear it. That _charity _dress…It looked beautiful in her mind.

Finally, she managed to press her hair into some type of style—using copious bobby pins and clips to keep it in place, and she hurriedly applied some makeup. In her haste, she accidentally drew a long, black line alongside her nose as she swiped up the mascara, and she cried out angrily and rubbed it furiously.

"_What _is wrong with you?" she demanded her reflection.

The doorbell rang, and her stomach jumped. She gave one last distraught look into the mirror, adjusted her dress a little, and went to the door, trying to quell her hard blush that was attacking her cheeks.

Raoul looked perfect, as usual. He was very handsome in a tuxedo, she couldn't help but notice, and it did nothing to help her blush.

"Hi," she said nervously. "Uh…come in."

"Thanks," he said, smiling warmly. "You look really, really pretty."

"Really?" She nearly choked.

"Really." And then he laughed at what they had just done.

Gustave entered then, and they shook hands.

"_Hej, Herr Daae_," Raoul said politely.

Gustave laughed warmly at the attempt, and Christine darted away to get her coat, trying not to shake. Sniffling a little, she drew her coat on, checked herself one last time, sighed in defeat, and went back to the front room. Raoul was patiently trying to explain what the purpose of the party was.

"A fundraiser," he said slowly. "People give the company money to donate to charities."

Gustave nodded knowingly, though Christine knew he didn't understand. She translated it into swift Swedish for him.

"I know what he meant," he scowled back, his Swedish grated, and Christine sighed again, resisted rolling her eyes, and said, continuing their conversation in Swedish,

"I don't know what time I'll be back tonight. Probably soon—I don't really want to go, after all. So I should beat you back before you're done with work."

"Have a good time," Gustave said. "Be safe."

"I will, _Pappa_," she said, still feeling a little miffed, and she let Raoul lead her out of the old apartment, down the stairs, and out into the crisp winter night.

They drove in relative silence, and Raoul tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at her often, and she could tell that he was nervous about her silence.

"So…did you…have a good day yesterday?" he asked. "I didn't call you—sorry. Things got so busy at the office that as soon as I got home I just crashed."

"It was fine," she said shortly, staring out of the window. The buildings were getting progressively nicer, the streets cleaner, and the people more dignified.

"Are you excited?" he said bracingly. "It should be fun!"

"Yep," she said flatly. Then she felt bad. She knew she should not be ruining Raoul's evening by making him worry about her. So, taking a deep breath, she tried to squash all the negative feelings, and she looked at him and reached for his hand, feeling a little silly. He took her fingers quickly, obviously relieved that she was making an effort.

"It'll be fun," she said. "But you'll have to teach me what to do—I haven't done anything like this before."

He laughed a little and, to her surprise, brought her hand up and kissed her fingers. "Christine, you're really sweet. There's nothing to 'teach' you. You just walk around and talk to people—like any other party, really. All the old guys will talk about business, and all the young guys will talk about sports and money. The old ladies talk about the young ladies, and the young ladies talk about the old ladies. So there you have it. Nothing too interesting."

She managed to smile a little, and she smoothed the skirt of her dress with her free hand. Then she noticed a small spot on her bare leg that she missed while shaving, and her blush returned. Hopefully the lights would be dim and no one would be looking at her legs.

"So my parents are visiting in a few weeks," he said conversationally. "They're flying in. We should all go out to dinner one night. What do you think? You've met them before, right?"

Christine nodded. It had been a very long time ago, but she still remembered the way she had squirmed childishly as Raoul happily introduced her. His parents had an overpowering…_rich _presence. They were very wealthy, and she had felt insignificant next to them. Still, it had been ten years ago, so perhaps now that she was grown the childish feelings wouldn't be there anymore.

Soon, they were at the venue, and a teenage boy came to park the car. Raoul opened the door for her, took her arm, and led her into a large building. The entrance foyer was grand and marble, and lights were splashed everywhere. Christine clung to Raoul, staring around as he led her through. A few people were milling about, talking quietly, and she noticed that a few dozen servers were walking around with small silver plates, some with tall champagne glasses and some with bits of food.

He took her into the main area, and she looked around in horror and awe. There was a couple hundred people there, all dressed beautifully. A string quartet was playing (one of her favorite pieces by a late British composer), and a large ice sculpture was surrounded by more glasses of champagne and other alcoholic drinks.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Raoul said to her, squeezing her arm affectionately, and she looked up at him and nodded, trying not to look too overwhelmed. He helped her take off her coat, and she was glad she was rid of it. But that left her cheap dress exposed, and she once again took Raoul's arm, pressing herself next to him tightly. Perhaps if she was close to him, people couldn't really see her dress and see how it was obviously low-quality cut and material.

As soon as they were coatless and moving, a woman approached them. Her hair was a vivid, dyed orange, and her teeth were too big and too white. She smiled widely at them, and Raoul smiled as well.

"Raoul!" she called out shrilly. Her dress was covered in sparkles, and her heels were high. "I'm so glad you made it."

"I'm glad I did, too," he said. "This is my girlfriend, Christine. Christine, this is Angela Garden, the CFO's receptionist."

"Hi," Christine said, unsure of what else to say. She continued to clutch at Raoul's arm, feeling it beneath the clothes. He was strong.

"You have made _quite_ the catch, young lady!" Angela Garden trilled, somehow managing to show all of her teeth while talking. "Raoul here is one of the best junior associates we've ever had—and fresh out of college, too! He's certainly going places!"

"Ha," she said weakly.

Raoul and Angela Garden talked for a few more minutes, and then she said goodbye in order to jump on another entering couple. Raoul led her off.

"You okay?" he said quietly, stepping in front of her took look her in the eye. "You look a little sick."

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"Are you sure? You nearly squeezed my arm off!" He moved his forearm up and down as if to emphasize his point, and she blushed again.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I guess I was a little nervous…"

"Why? There's nothing to be nervous about. You're no different than anyone here." He touched her arm lightly in reassurance.

"Yeah," she agreed vaguely. "Okay."

"Ready to try again?"

She nodded, and he took her arm and led her off once more. He introduced her to a bunch more people, and the names and faces swirled past. There was Robert Christiansen, who was in charge of the accounting department—no, wait, that was Adam Ellis. And then Michelle Lake, who had something to do with publicity…And on and on. Christine did not speak much. She said the obligatory 'hello' and 'goodbye,' and that was about it. Raoul did not pressure her to say anything more, and she was grateful.

Some people did ask her questions. A woman from the human resources department asked where she had gotten her dress, and she had turned red and stammered that she didn't remember. The woman in question had been wearing an exquisite purple silk gown with beautiful white heels and real diamonds. Christine didn't want to know if the woman had asked to be kind or to mock her.

After a while, Raoul pulled her aside.

"You should probably eat something," he said. "You're looking a little white. Sorry—I know this is probably all overwhelming and stuff."

"No, it's fine," she said, though she was thankful for his thoughtfulness. A server came by and stopped by them, and Christine gratefully reached out, but Raoul took her hand.

"I don't think you'd like that," he said.

"What is it?" she asked, somehow feeling a little indignant.

"It's…well, raw fish, basically," he replied.

"What? My dad loves fish—I mean, I'm Swedish. I eat fish." She reached for it again, and this time he didn't stop her. Instead he shrugged, took one for himself, and watched her closely. She glanced at him again before biting into it—and then instantly regretting it. It didn't taste like any fish she had ever eaten before. It tasted like raw fish, even worse than the fish paste Gustave liked but she could never bring herself to eat. It tasted like salty ocean water mixed with the stink of rotten fish. She held it in her mouth, not wanting to swallow, not wanting to chew, not wanting it in her mouth anymore. She made a whimpering sound and looked to Raoul for help. He laughed a little before leading her over to the table with the ice sculpture and handing her a napkin. Christine looked around before turning her back and spitting out the bite onto the napkin, nearly gagging.

She moaned softly, wanting to wipe her tongue with her fingers to get rid of the taste. Raoul asked a passing server for some water, and she soon had it. She downed the entire glass in a few seconds.

When she looked up, she saw that a woman was staring at her with a curled upper lip and a raised eyebrow. From the expression on her face, she had seen the entire ordeal. Christine's face lit up with another blush, and she turned to Raoul in embarrassment.

"That woman saw me," she groaned. "I'm so embarrassed…"

"Who? Oh—Margery White? Don't pay attention to her. She's crazy."

Still, Christine kept her back turned, covering her face in horror. It was all worse than she had envisioned—so much worse.

"Here, watch this."

Christine looked up, and Raoul put the entire hor d'oeuvres in his mouth. He chewed it once, made a disgusted face, grabbed a napkin, and spit it out as well, sticking out his tongue and wiping it on the cloth. Christine covered her mouth with her hand and then suddenly broke out into giggles. Raoul proudly displayed the half-masticated fish to Margery White, who looked horrified at such a display and turned her gaze away in disgust.

"Aww, thanks," Christine said sincerely, and she leaned in. He got the hint and kissed her swiftly.

"Gross," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Fish breath."

Raoul reached into his pocket and pulled out a little green hard candy, which she then recognized to be a breath mint. She took it in wonder.

"How is it you think of everything?" she asked, putting the mint into her mouth and savoring the taste.

"I never come to one of these things without these," he said, popping one into his mouth as well. "They've saved me from tasting rotten fish all night too many times to count." Then he kissed her again, and this time she liked the taste of the mint on his breath.

He took her hand and led her out. Nothing occurred until sometime later, when Raoul introduced her to Henry Maguire, who was older and balding severely. His face was very red and shiny, and his head seemed to sit squarely on his collar—no neck in between. He was some kind of senior associate, and Christine was gazing around the room as he and Raoul talked about things she didn't understand.

Then a waiter came by, and he and Raoul took champagne from the platter. Mr. Maguire tried to hand a glass to her.

"Oh—no, thank you," she said, trying not to blush.

"Whatsa matter?" he said, holding it out. "You religious or something?"

"No—well, yes, but…uh…" She looked up to Raoul for help. He calmly took the glass from Mr. Maguire's hand and put it back on the tray.

"Christine isn't old enough to drink," Raoul said firmly, clearly wanting that to be the end of the matter.

Mr. Maguire's bushy eyebrows rose. "Not old enough?" he said. "What? How old are you, girl?"

"Twenty," she said, suddenly feeling hot and confined in the room.

"Twenty?" he crowed. Some people turned their heads at the sound, and Christine resisted burying her face in Raoul's arm. She felt him tense a little. "You sure do pick them young, de Chagny!" Mr. Maguire continued, his voice too loud. "How old are you? Twenty-six?"

"Twenty-five," Raoul said shortly. "It was nice talking to you, Henry, but—"

"Now don't run off!" he interrupted, drinking some of his champagne. "I didn't mean anything by it. I understand. Once I met this girl in the Bahamas a few years back. She must have been nineteen—a real looker, you know, one of those tanned beach blondes. Anyway, she was so happy to join me on my cruise around the islands. We had a good time together. You know how it is."

Raoul was red in the face. That was not a sign of embarrassment for him—it was a sign of anger. Christine had only seen it once or twice. He usually had such a sweet disposition, and it took big things to set him off.

"No, I _don't_. I do not appreciate you insulting my fiancée in front of me. You can insult me all you want, but don't you ever say anything like that about her again." He pulled her away, and she stumbled a little on her short heels as they went. Her heart was beating in her throat.

They were silent, and he took her to their usually-abandoned corner. He needed a moment to calm down, she knew. However…her head felt strangely heavy.

"Raoul?" she murmured, reaching for his hand.

He looked at her. "I'm so sorry, Christine," he said. "I really…I am so sorry."

"No," she said. "You don't have to apologize for what that jerk said. He was just dumb."

Apparently she said something amusing, because he smiled. "'Jerk,'" he repeated. "That's polite."

"Heh, yeah. Uh, anyway…" She pushed an errant curl behind her ear. Her hair was starting to become undone. "I was just—well, when you were—um. You called me your fiancée."

"Oh." He paused for a long while. "Sorry. It just…it really just slipped out, you know. I didn't mean—I was just so mad. You don't have to…think anything of it…because—you know. I was just…"

"It's okay," she said, sensing his embarrassment. "I understand."

After a few deep breaths, his face was clear once more, and he suggested, "How about we leave and go get some real food? I'm starving, and I don't want to be here another minute."

"Yes, please," she replied immediately, and he laughed and kissed her.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, full of cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes, he was driving her home, and she had scooted over and was leaning her head against his shoulder as he drove. She grinned a little as she thought of the stares they had received while ordering their meals at a run-down little burger joint. It wasn't exactly a place to wear a tuxedo and any sort of dress with heels. However, they had enjoyed themselves, and Raoul had gorged himself on cheese fries for her amusement, proving that he was a stereotypical young man and could eat as much as he wanted with pretty much no negative side effects. And somehow she was more enamored with him than ever.

"Tired?" he asked her softly, and she nodded, stifling a yawn behind her hand.

"I'm sorry that the party was such a disaster," he said. "I really…I wish it had gone differently."

"You were fine. It was the other people who made it into such an awful place." She snuggled into his shoulder more, feeling the fine material of the tuxedo jacket press into her cheek.

"Yeah. Well, at least we got a good laugh out of it. I'll always remember Margery White's face when I spit out the fish. She'll tell everyone she knows."

Christine giggled at the memory. "Thanks."

After a few more comfortable minutes in silence, they arrived at the apartment complex, and he helped her get out of the car and escorted her up to her door. He kissed her for a while, and she enjoyed it, especially when he put his hands in her hair. Then he broke away, wished her a goodnight, kissed her again, thanked her for accompanying him, kissed her once more, promised to call her the next morning, and kissed her one last time. She unlocked the door and shut it behind her, feeling her heart beating loudly against her chest. Even though the party ended up being the horror affair she knew it would be, she somehow didn't regret that evening. Raoul had…been such a wonderful man.

She flicked on the lights and checked the time. It was late. Gustave was probably already home and sleeping. She picked up a book that had fallen to the floor, changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and combed out the gel in her hair before getting a glass of water and tiptoeing to Gustave's room. He would appreciate it if she checked in so he knew she was all right.

"_Pappa?_" she whispered, opening his door a little. She peered in. It was very dark. "_Pappa?"_ she hissed again, a little louder. "I'm home."

There was no answer. Frowning a little, Christine opened the door wider, flicking on the dim hall light so she could see inside.

His bed was empty, and his violin still lay at the foot of it from earlier that evening. As she looked around in shock, she could see that something terrible had happened. His night lamp was on the ground, broken, and the framed picture of his late wife was also shattered and on the floor. The pillows on the bed were scattered, and when she looked close at the ground, she could see a dark patch…a red patch…blood. Christine screamed, dropping her glass to the ground and backing out of the room.

He was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Anathema [uh-**_**nath**_**-uh-muh]: n. a person or thing detested or loathed/a person or thing accursed or consigned to damnation or destruction.**

* * *

For minutes on end, she could do nothing. She simply wailed, slumped on the ground, staring into the room as if doing so would magically bring Gustave back. She clutched at her hair and sobbed, horrible things coming to her. What if he was…under the bed? What if someone had killed him and stuffed the body there? She couldn't look—she didn't want to…She was not brave enough.

The only person who would be brave enough…

She crawled into her room, not having the courage to walk, and she dug around for her outdated cell phone, flipping it open and dialing the number with shaky fingers. Still crying at the thought, she held the phone to her ear.

"_Christine?_"

At first, she could not make out any coherent words. She simply sobbed into the phone, pressing her hand over her eyes, wanting to block out the mental image of her body's father under the bed. It was too horrible.

She said, "Raoul…please…"

"_Christine! What's wrong? Honey? Tell me what's wrong!"_

"Please—please—" she whimpered, pressing her forehead to the side of her bed.

"_I'm turning around. Stay where you are. You're at your apartment, right? Stay there, baby, okay? Can you talk to me? Can you tell me what's going on?"_

She shook her head, feeling terrified of the darkness of her room. She wanted to go where it was light—but that was out in the hallway, near her father's room…near the blood…and his body.

"_Okay, it's okay. Calm down, Christine. I'm almost there. Is your door unlocked? Can you unlock the door for me? Can you at least do that? Or…Christine, what's going on? Please tell me! Is someone there?"_

Yes—unlock the door so Raoul could enter. She crawled into the main room, reached up high for the deadbolt, and clicked it open. Then she crawled back to her bedroom, afraid that the murderer might be waiting for her to unlock the door—so he could enter and kill _her_, too. With trembling hands, she reached up on her table and felt around for her cross necklace. When she felt it, she grabbed it and clutched it tightly, feeling the metal press into her skin.

"_Christine?" _Raoul's voice was back. "_Don't hang up on me, honey! Stay there. Talk to me. I'm just a few blocks away, all right?"_

She wanted to crawl away into her closet and hide. How could anybody do this to her? To her _Pappa? _They had never hurt anybody in their lives! Some evil man had entered her home and…and…

She had been planning to cook something special for him tomorrow night as a surprise! She cried harder at the thought. How could this happen to her? What would she do now? No more father. No more _Pappa_. He had been her constant companion for her entire life. He had loved her more than anyone else in the world. And—the last things she said to him! She had been so cruel! _Why _had she agreed to go to that stupid party? If she had refused…maybe she could have saved him! Maybe he could have escaped! Christine gasped and almost choked on it. Her lungs felt restricted, too small for the air she needed.

"Christine? Christine!"

A pair of arms overtook her, and she recognized the scent and the feel. She clung to Raoul, burying her face in his chest. She hadn't even heard him enter.

"What's going on?" he asked seriously. "Tell me what's happening, Christine, so I can help you."

She pointed out into the hallway, her finger trembling, and he got up and looked around.

"I don't see anything," he called.

"_Pappa_," she whispered. "Please. _Pappa_."

There was silence, and she heard him moving around in Gustave's bedroom. "Is that…?" he then said, and she imagined him looking at the blood on the ground. "Oh, geez." When he entered her room again, his sleek phone was to his ear, and he knelt down and wrapped her up with his free arm.

"Yeah, hi," he said quickly. "I'm at my girlfriend's apartment—I was dropping her off, and she went inside, and her dad was supposed to be here, but he's not. His room is pretty smashed up, and I think there's some blood on the floor. Yeah. No, not from I can see. Uh-huh. No, she's fine, but she's really shaken up. I think she might be in shock. No, I'm fine. She called me just a few minutes ago after she saw his room. Yeah. Gustave Daae. I'm at Hillside Apartments on the east side—apartment 5C. Yeah, please come as soon as you can. Okay." He put his phone back into his pocket and then pulled her into his arms fully. She cried against his neck.

"It's all right," he murmured. "It's okay. Things are going to be okay."

"Is—is—he—?" she choked out.

"Is he what, Christine?" he said.

"Under—the bed—" she gasped.

He paused for a moment, apparently a little puzzled, but then he said, "There wasn't anything under the bed, Christine, except for some suitcases. Why?"

She began to sob anew, a mixture of relief and more terror. So he wasn't dead—at least not here. Yet that only presented a whole new set of horrors. Where was he? Who took him? What were they doing to him?

"What—what's this?" He took her clenched fist and literally pried it open, as she could not open it for him. "Oh, Christine." He knew of the necklace, and he carefully clasped it around her neck. She continued to sob, pressing her shaking fingers against the emblem.

"Here." Raoul untangled himself from her and left for a moment before returning with a glass of water. "Drink this, baby."

She took it in trembling hands, and he helped her lift it to her lips. As she was gulping it down, her stomach suddenly jerked, and all at once she remembered the taste of the raw fish and the onions from the burger and the cheese and the grease and the—it all made her stomach twist unpleasantly. She groaned and tried to crawl away. Raoul helped her, and she managed to get to the bathroom in time.

She vomited into the toilet, heaving violently, and Raoul held her hair behind her shoulders and rubbed her back. She threw up again and again, sobbing and retching and wanting to die. When she had nothing more to expel, she fell back onto the floor in awful exhaustion, feeling too weak to cry anymore. Raoul got more water and a bowl, and he handed the glass to her.

"Rinse out your mouth," he said. "It will make you feel better."

She did as he said, and as she was doing so, she heard a knock on the door. Raoul ensured that she was all right before getting up to answer it. She lay on the grimy tiles in the bathroom, humiliated and defeated in her old, holey, faded pajamas and loose wild hair. She had never felt so disgusting and miserable. A few people came in, and she looked up at them. One of them kneeled down and shined a bright light in her eyes. She groaned and looked away.

"Miss?" said an older man's voice. "Miss, can you hear me?"

She looked back at him, and he put some fingers to her wrist and then felt her forehead. She didn't like this—she didn't like this strange man touching her. Who was he? What were these people doing here?

"Raoul…" she said.

"I'm here, Christine." He was back, and he kneeled down alongside the other man. He took her hand, rubbing it softly. "You're going to be okay."

She could hear people moving around outside of the bathroom. There were conversations, mutters, even some people laughing quietly. She wanted everyone out—out of her apartment! Out of her home!

Feeling her eyes fill with tears again, she reached for the only person she knew, and he carefully pulled her up and into his arms. Her dignity was gone. She was utterly broken, and she began to cry again, clinging to him tightly, feeling his strong arms support her and his breathing in her ear. He was still wearing his tuxedo, and his cologne lingered in the material.

Faintly, as if through a wall, she could hear Raoul talking to someone. After a minute, he pulled away slightly and looked down at her.

"Can you walk to the front room, Christine?" he asked softly. "Or do you want me to carry you?"

Didn't he know her legs didn't work anymore? She had to crawl everywhere now. Without hearing her answer but obvious knowing what it was, he carefully slipped his arms around her and picked her up. She didn't want to see anyone, and she put her face in his warm neck. His pulse was consistent, rhythmic. Everything about him was strength, steadfastness, and steadiness.

He put her on the couch and sat beside her, holding her hand tightly and murmuring more words to her. She didn't want to listen. She simply leaned against his shoulder, feeling tears continue to slip down her cheeks and onto her chest.

Another man came by, and he talked to Raoul. When they turned their attention to her, she found herself struggling for words.

"My _Pappa's_ gone," she managed to say in trembling Swedish. "Please…please find him…"

There was a pause, and Raoul pulled her closer. "Christine," he said quietly. He began speaking French. Raoul's entire family was French. She spoke French as well. Her mother had been French. "Christine, can you speak in English for me? Or maybe in French, and I can translate it for you. Can you do that for me?"

"I just want my Papa," she said in French.

"They're going to help us find him," he replied. "Don't worry."

He asked her some questions, presumably translating from the other man, and she answered in short whispers. No, she had not seen anyone. No, she hadn't heard anything. No, her father hadn't said anything. After a while, she grew agitated and more upset. The questions were banal, and she just wanted to run out into the streets and scream for her father.

"Okay, that's all he's going to ask you for now," Raoul then said, his French low and soothing. "Can I carry you again, Christine? I don't want you staying here tonight."

She nodded, and he picked her up and took her out and down the stairs. She felt too tired to cry. All of the rushing emotions had swept through and drained her, and she simply wanted to sleep.

Raoul put her in his car and helped her buckle her seatbelt, and then he drove away from the complex. She noticed that they were following a police car with its lights flashing.

"What's going on?" she asked fearfully. "Raoul?"

He reached over and took her hand. "It's okay. Relax. They just want to monitor you tonight. You're going to stay at the hospital."

"I'm not sick!" she cried. "No, I'm not sick!" Hospitals were where people went to die—and she wasn't going to die! Was she?

"I know, Christine, please calm down. You've just had a little shock, and they only want to make sure that you're completely okay. So only one night—just tonight. Okay? I promise."

"I'm not sick," she repeated in a whisper. "I just want my Papa."

* * *

Christine woke with a start as something near her beeped loudly. For a moment, she nearly panicked, wondering where she was. Then it all came back, and she closed her eyes, resisting giving a groan. The bed—cot, really—she was lying on felt hard and impersonal, and the blankets smelled too sterile and aloof. If blankets could smell aloof…But they did. She wanted them off of her. However, she was cold, so she kept them on.

Raoul had driven her to the hospital, and he had been forced out while two nurses helped her change out of her old, ratty pajamas and into one of the hideous hospital gowns. It had small blue flowers dotted around it, and it draped over her like a tent. Then she had been put in the bed and hooked up to some machines. The nurses wrote some things down on official-looking clipboards and then showed her which buttons to push if she needed them. They smiled at her and left. Raoul had been allowed in, and he had sat by her until she finally dropped off in exhaustion. When she looked at the chair, she saw that it was empty. A little tug pulled at her heart. He must have had to go to work. She had no idea what time it was, but sunlight had filled the room through the single large window, the drapes too thin to block out all the light.

All the events of last night were swirling in her mind, and she put her hand over her eyes, feeling a little dizzy as she remembered. Coming home…her father's bedroom in shambles…She had sobbed for what felt like days. Her eyes were still swollen and heavy from all the tears she had shed. Her mouth felt heavy and thick, and she reached for the cup of water that was sitting on the plastic table beside the bed. Her fingers were shaking, and when she picked it up, it slipped from her hands, spilling on the floor.

She moaned and slumped back into the small, thin pillows, trying not to cry again. She couldn't even have a drink of water!

The door opened, and she looked to see that Raoul was entering, a small traveling bag over his shoulder, a brown paper sack in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other.

"Oh!" he said, smiling when he saw her. "I wanted to be back before you woke up. Feeling all right?"

"I spilled some water," she said dully, speaking in English.

His smile widened a little. "Good to know you're trilingual again," he said. "And don't worry about the water, Christine. I'm sure it's fine." He approached and put the bag on the floor before sitting down in the chair he had previously occupied.

"Where are you going?" she asked, trying not to sound fearful. How could he leave her so soon?

"What—wait? What do you mean? I just got here. I'm not going anywhere." He put the sack down on the plastic table by the bed, right where the cup had been. Then he bent down and picked up the cup.

"That bag," she said.

"Oh, that's yours," he said, nudging it with the toe of his shoe. "I went back to your apartment and packed some clothes for you. As pretty as you look in that _beautiful_ hospital gown, I'm sure you'd much rather be in normal clothes."

She managed to smile a little. His humor never failed to cheer her up at least a bit.

"Thanks," she said.

"No problem," he said, and he opened the brown sack. "I also brought you breakfast. You never know what you're gonna get with that hospital food. _That's _the stuff that kills you." He pulled out a small cup of juice, an apple, and a bagel with cream cheese and presented it to her with a small smile.

"Wow. Thanks," she said again. She drank the juice thirstily and then nibbled on the bagel. Raoul drank some of his coffee, and she noticed that he was stillwearing his tux from the night before. He had shed everything except the pants and the shirtsleeves, but they were distinctly rumpled and wrinkled. His cheeks and chin were covered with stubble, and his eyes had slight shadows underneath, but he looked at her with nothing but kindness and affection in his eyes. She was burning with shame. Raoul was too good for her—much too good. She didn't deserve a man like he was.

She ate half of the bagel and took a bite or two of the apple before setting them aside, feeling a little queasy and not wanting a repeat of the vomiting in front of him from the night before. Her cheeks only burned brighter as she remembered. He must have thought she was pathetic.

"So I talked to the doctor," Raoul said, eating the rest of her apple after ensuring that she really didn't want anymore. "He said you can go as soon as you get checked once more in an hour or so. Just sign some papers and stuff, and you're free. Also I talked to the police. They said they're looking for DNA evidence or fingerprints…They've been working hard, but nothing's come up yet. But I'm sure something will soon, and then they'll find your dad." He leaned over and rubbed her arm.

Christine nodded, staring at the starched blankets. Her father—her _Pappa_…gone. It was more definite now than it had been the previous night. He really was gone. It wasn't a misunderstanding between the two of them. He hadn't been out running errands. He was gone, and she didn't know why or where.

Raoul tried to talk to her for a while, but she mostly nodded or answered in monosyllabic words. She just…didn't want to function. She didn't want to have to make conversation or an effort. Not until her father was back. He was her entire world, her entire purpose.

The nurses came back, and Raoul left as they helped her change out of the hospital gown and into regular clothes. Christine blushed a little as she saw that Raoul had packed several pairs of clean underwear and some of her bras.

After dressing, she signed a few papers under Raoul's supervision (he read over them briefly to make sure she could sign them), and then he picked up the bag, wrapped an arm around her waist, and led her out of the hospital. His spotless BMW was still waiting for them, and she climbed in, glad for the familiar surroundings.

As they drove, she leaned her head against the window, staring at the bright day. People were enjoying their Saturday afternoon. It was unusually warm, and she saw people riding their bikes and jogging, mothers with little babies or toddlers…She felt her heart ache. It was so beautiful. She and her father would have probably sung at the park today…People were out, and they would have heard him.

While they drove, she perked up a bit at their surroundings.

"Where are we going?" she asked. "This isn't the way back to my apartment."

"Oh—no, we're not going there," Raoul said, putting a comforting hand on her leg. "I thought that it would be best if you stay with me for a while, if you're okay with that. I mean, you probably shouldn't go back to your apartment, not while they're still looking for stuff. And even when they're gone, I don't like the thought of you alone in your apartment. That complex is…not the safest place for a young woman."

"But what if my dad comes back?" she said, sounding a little shrill even to her own ears. "I need to be there when he comes back!"

"If he comes back, they'll call us the second he does, and I'll drive you over there rain or shine, night or day. Okay?"

She forced herself to take in a deep breath. He was right. It was probably best that she wasn't alone in her apartment, especially not after what happened. What if…_they_ came back? She shuddered a little. And if there was anyone she had to be with, she would want it to be Raoul.

He carried her bag and took her hand to lead her up to his apartment. It was in a very nice complex with an actual doorman. No children were allowed, so it was relatively quiet, and Christine had often spent comfortable nights with him watching movies or simply talking. However, she had never been less excited about entering into his modern, spacious apartment. He took her over to the guest bedroom (which he had invited her to stay in many times but was always refused) and put the bag on the bed.

"Feel free to unpack or rearrange or do whatever you want. I hardly come in here—so it's pretty much your room. Just make yourself at home, really. And there's no adjoining bathroom, sorry. But there's one right across the hall that you can use. So…Do you want something to eat? Are you hungry?"

She shook her head, looking around at the impersonal room. The bed was crisply made and looked as if it had never been slept in. The bedcovers were a deep gray with white, and the pillows matched. The furniture set was a pretty black wood, and there were soft rugs. A few abstract, uninteresting paintings hung on the walls, and a mirror was over the empty dresser. There was no _home _feel to it—though she told herself that that was to be expected in a guest room that Raoul hardly ever went in.

"Well, if you do get hungry, just let me know. I'm not a good cook, but I'm sure I can impress you _somehow_." He bumped her playfully but then grew instantly solemn when he realized that she was still somber and depressed. "Christine, I'm so sorry that this happened." He wrapped his arms around her. "I promise that they'll find him. I promise."

Late that night, while Raoul was sleeping peacefully in his bedroom, Christine stared at the blank white ceiling, tears dripping into her ears. Raoul always kept his promises—he did. And he promised that they would find him. They would.

They had to.


	4. Chapter 4

Early the next morning, Christine tiptoed into Raoul's bedroom, a single purpose in mind. She looked around, noting the framed pictures on the flat surfaces: some of his family, some of him and his friends, a picture of him with his mother at his college graduation…She noticed with some level of discomfort that a lot of pictures were of _her_—doing normal things like laughing, making goofy faces, eating ice cream. She had thought he was taking pictures just to be fun. She hadn't realized that he had actually _kept _them. There were a couple of pictures with the two of them…one of them kissing. They had taken that at a photo booth just a few weeks ago. She remembered it with an ache. She had felt unbelievably happy at that moment.

His bedroom was much larger than hers and much nicer. It was also the bedroom of an unmarried man. There were clothes on the floor and some at the foot of his bed, books scattered around, loose papers all over his desk. The bathroom door was open, and she could see a couple of towels on the tiled floor.

He was sleeping peacefully, his arm tossed over his face. With a little blush, she saw that he did not wear a shirt while sleeping. His chest was…nice.

"Uh…Raoul?" she whispered softly, kneeling by him. "Raoul?"

He rolled away from her, grunting in irritation. She reached out and poked his bare back.

"Raoul," she hissed.

He grunted again, pulling the blue blankets up to his shoulders. She rubbed her eyes, pushed her hair behind her shoulders, and tried again with a deep breath.

"Raoul, please wake up," she said, shaking his shoulder.

"Wha…?" he groaned, opening his eyes a crack and peering around. He looked at her and blinked a few times, trying to wake himself up. She knelt by the bedside awkwardly as he pressed his fingers to his eyes and ran his hand through his hair in confusion.

"Christine," he said hoarsely. "Is there something you need?"

She nodded. "It's Sunday."

"I know," he replied, sitting up and yawning. He rubbed his face.

"I have church today," she said. "And you didn't pack any of my dresses or skirts in the bag." She bit her lip and looked at the ground. "I'm sorry for bothering you. I wouldn't have, but I don't have any nice clothes to wear or any money for the bus."

He frowned a little. "Honey, you just got out of the hospital yesterday. Are you sure you want to go to church today?"

"It's Sunday," she repeated. "I have church."

It was something she and her _Pappa _had done. Every Sunday, they went to church. Every Sunday. Perhaps…if she went today…

With a final sigh, Raoul climbed out of bed. "All right," he said. "I'll take you to church."

Christine awkwardly stood around the guest bedroom while he showered and readied himself. Then he made her breakfast, as she was still too shy to go rummaging through his cupboards and fridge. As they ate, he said,

"I have a nice neighbor who's about your size. You wouldn't mind borrowing a dress from her, would you? It's just that I'm not sure if we can make it in time if we have to drive all the way to your apartment and then to the church house."

So twenty minutes later, Christine was in a borrowed, plain black dress. She looked like she was going to a funeral. The thought made her a little sick. No, this was _not _a funeral. Her father was alive…somewhere. Raoul had put on a shirt and tie with some dark slacks, and he led her out to the car.

"Thank you," she said quietly as they drove.

"No problem," he said. "I'm proud of you that you're able to do this so soon."

No—he shouldn't have been proud of her. Inside, her mind and stomach were twisting cruelly. She wanted to jump out of the car and run—just run until she found him. He was _somewhere_. And he was her father and he loved her. So he would try to get back to her as well.

They arrived a few minutes before the services began, and Christine hesitated slightly when entering the chapel. She and her _Pappa _had done this together…The man beside her was most definitely _not _her father. She crossed herself with the Holy Water, and Raoul followed suit.

As she sat in the pew and listened to the service, she clutched her necklace in her hand and bowed her head, trying to control her tears.

_Please, God…Please. I have always tried to follow Your commandments. I have tried to do what You told me. Please bring my _Pappa_ back safely to me. Please bring him back. I'm scared. Please help me…_

Raoul sat by her quietly, his arm around her shoulders while they were sitting. He knelt and stood and prayed and sang when required, and he even took the sacrament after she did. When she returned to her seat, she knelt down again and pressed her hands over her face.

_Please, please, _please_, God. I don't understand. I don't understand how You could do this to me. Please, I'm so sorry for anything bad I've ever done. I'll do anything. Please bring my _Pappa _back to me._

The tears were coming, and she couldn't wipe them away fast enough. She felt them smearing the light makeup she had put on, and black was streaking her fingers. After a moment, she felt Raoul kneel down beside her.

"You okay?" he murmured quietly in her ear. "We can leave if you need to."

She shook her head. She needed to finish the service. However, when the sacrament service was over, she didn't want to stand and sing. She didn't want to. She remained kneeling, crying, and Raoul put his arm around her waist and pulled gently.

"Come on," he said.

She didn't protest this time, and she let herself be dragged up and led out of the church house.

When she got back to Raoul's apartment, she went to the guest room and struggled out of the dress before flinging it on the floor, never wanting to see it again. She pulled on some old clothes, burrowed under the sheets, and sobbed. The service without her _Pappa _beside her had been torture. He was a very religious man and had instilled that in her as well. How could she attend her meetings without him? _He _had been part of the reason why they were so special. She needed to hear his strong singing voice beside her, needed to hear him stumbling over some of the unfamiliar English phrases and words, needed to feel his warm presence beside her. The service had not felt right without him.

Raoul tried to comfort her, but after a while it was clear even to him that she simply wanted to cry herself to exhaustion. He sat by the bed, a hand on her back as she wailed. She felt pathetic and disgusting—and it only added to her misery.

Finally, she grew too tired to cry anymore, and she hiccoughed tiredly for a while, occasional tears dripping down onto the sheets.

"Just let me know if you need anything at all, all right?" Raoul said softly. He kissed her cheek and left.

The next afternoon, Christine was curled up on the couch, staring at the television in complete unhappiness. She had been watching shows about animals for the entire day, and she was currently watching a cheetah chase after some antelope.

"_The cheetah can reach speeds of 60-70 miles per hour and is the fastest land mammal in the world."_

The door opened, and she blinked at the television.

"Hey," Raoul said, walking over to see her. He put his bag down next to the couch and sat down, picking up her legs and setting them on his lap. "You doing okay?"

She was silent, watching as the huge cat leapt onto its prey and latched its teeth into its body.

Raoul had been very apologetic that morning as he went to work. He had told her that he would take another day off if she needed him, but she had told him that he needed to go. Then he had showed her how to work the remote control, told her to eat whatever she wanted, ensured that she had a way of contacting his office, kissed her, and left. She had found a spare blanket in a closet. It was black and musty. Then she had sat down on the couch and pushed some buttons on the remote control, confusing a few of the controls and menus. She had been stuck on this channel ever since. And she had lain down and hadn't moved since. The dull noise calmed her and helped her keep her mind off of…things.

"Did you know that hippopotamuses are born underwater?" she said.

"No," he said. "Did you watch something about hippos?"

She nodded. The cheetah had begun to eat. It was disgusting, and she stared at it.

Then she said, "A bunch of hippopotamuses together are called a school. Like fish. Maybe because they both live in water."

"Maybe." He watched silently with her for a few minutes. Then he said, "Did you do anything today?"

"I learned about animals. Wolves are so big. I never realized how big they were. And the baby wolves were so cute." The program cut to an advertisement about an animal shelter, showing wide-eyed puppies and playful kittens with sad music in the background.

There was more silence for a few moments, and then Raoul said, "Have you eaten anything today?"

She shrugged.

"I'm going to talk to the police tomorrow," he said. "See if they've found anything."

"Okay," she said. Raoul picked up the remote and asked her if she wanted to watch the news. She shrugged again. Then she watched as people talked about a grisly murder from a few nights before that was leaving the police completely stumped—no story about her _Pappa, _of course. People went missing every day in the city.

After Raoul practically forced her to eat a sandwich, she went back to the room and slept.

When she woke the next morning, she had an idea. It had gone off like a light bulb in her brain—perhaps triggered by the murder she had watched about. The idea had somehow been formed as she slept, and she staggered out of the bed and showered.

Raoul smiled when she entered the kitchen, and he handed her some toast and cereal.

"Feeling better today?" he asked, sitting across from her. He was already dressed and ready for work.

Christine nodded, pushing spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth. The sleek clock on the wall ticked loudly, the refrigerator hummed, and the heater buzzed softly.

Raoul looked at his phone while he ate, tapping on it occasionally, and she glanced at him a few times, trying to get her courage together.

"Hey, Raoul?" she finally said.

He put his phone down and looked at her. "Yeah?"

"I was thinking last night. You know…when people get killed in this city…?"

"Uh…yeah…" he said, looking confused, his right eyebrow jumping up.

"Sometimes the police can't ever find the killer."

"Christine, I know they'll find your dad—"

"No, wait," she interrupted. She fidgeted with her spoon nervously. "Well, sometimes I hear people say that those people…were killed…by the Phantom."

Raoul's other eyebrow rose instantly. "What?" he said, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. "The _Phantom? _Christine, please don't tell me that you actually believe that he exists!"

She glowered at her soggy cereal. "I was just thinking."

"No—wait, Christine." He reached out and took her fingers. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be so condescending. It's just—that guy's only an urban legend of the city's. Whenever the police are clueless, people just blame it on some imaginary thing. He's not real. People just make up the stories to scare themselves."

"Yeah," she said quietly. "All right."

But it was not the end of the matter for her.

* * *

"Excuse me."

The woman looked at her, pausing in the motions of wiping the table. "Yeah?" She frowned a little. "You have I.D., honey?"

"I...I..."

She was trying not to stutter or be terrified, but she was both. A few days after her conversation with Raoul, she had taken to wandering the streets, asking the owners and patrons of cafés and stores and bars whether or not they had seen her father. Most had shaken their heads, but some of the kinder ones had promised to keep a lookout.

She had been going stir-crazy inside Raoul's apartment. Knowing that her father was out there somewhere had driven her into the city. She always left after Raoul left for work, and she always made sure she was back before he was. He would probably disapprove of her walking around the streets alone—especially considering that some of the places she visited were…not very nice.

"What is it, girly?"

Christine jumped a little, twisting a curl around as she was wont to do when nervous. Then she lightly touched the necklace around her neck.

"I'm looking for my father," she whispered, staring at the floor. "He went…missing almost a week ago. I was wondering…if you had seen anything…or heard anything…maybe…" She nervously glanced up at the buxom woman.

She shook her head. "Sorry, honey. Haven't seen anything. Have you talked to the police? They might be able to help you."

Christine nodded, close to tears again. "Yeah. They…they promised me that they would look…but I wanted to look, too…"

One of the patrons at the bar suddenly laughed. He was a dirty-looking older man, the sort of man one would expect to be drinking at a bar at four in the afternoon.

"You know they won't help you, right?" he said gruffly, still chortling. "Them coppers…More worthless than anything I could ever think of."

Christine trembled a bit, more disheartened and distraught by the second.

"Look at her, Dora!" the man said. "Looks like she's about to burst into tears!"

"Because her father was taken, stupid!" the woman snapped. "Don't listen to him, hon. The cops will help you."

The older man slapped his knee in amusement. "No—lissen to me, missy. If you want to find your father, you need to go to someone other than the cops…Someone a lotta people don't know about…"

The woman—Dora—looked up sharply. "Don't go frightening her with your stupid stories, Lou!"

"They ain't stories, they're true!" Lou insisted, smacking his palm onto the counter. "Come over here, missy, and lissen to me."

Drawn by the promise and hope of finding her father, Christine obeyed. She sat on the stool next to the dirty man and stared widely while he spoke.

"Now, you gotta listen closely, all right? 'Cause I ain't s'posed to tell, see, but you look so sad that you just went right on and broke my heart so now I gotta tell you." He shifted his chair closer. "Down here in this part of town we got our own little monster, you see…"

"A monster?" Christine whispered.

Lou nodded solemnly. "A monster, right. That's the only way to describe it. It's this monster that goes 'round and does dirty work for other people. Get my drift, girl?"

"Wait," she said. "Is this—is it…the Phantom?"

The man nodded immediately. "That's his own special little name we got for him! Doubt he even got a real one…if he's even human or not…And he does the work that no one else wants to. You know—snuffing people out. Exting'shing their candles."

"I—I don't want my father killed," she said, choked up. "No!"

"Now don't start crying, girl, just lissen to me." Lou leaned over and patted her shoulder heavily, his hands big and clumsy. It looked like dirt and grime were permanently engraved into the folds and grooves of his hands. "Listen, all right? So one time, I hears this story from a buddy of mine. He swears on his life that it's true. So this buddy of mine, he has this cousin, right? And this cousin has a friend who got in—"

"Stop scaring the girl, Lou!" Dora snapped. "You've had too much to drink, I tell you what!"

"Just shut up for once, Dora!" Lou barked. "Go be useful and scrub the toilets. They're dirty as anything."

Dora harrumphed and stuck her nose in the air, but she was silent.

"_Anyway_," Lou said, looking back at Christine. "This buddy's cousin's friend got in deep with some of the big bosses, you know. Gambling and stuff. Owed 'em lots of money. I heard he'd stole some crack from them as well and sold it on the side. So the bosses aren't too happy about that, right? They're right angry. So they call on this guy—this monster of ours—and ask him to get the guy. They're angry at him. Follow?"

Christine nodded, still staring widely.

"So my buddy's cousin's friend knew that this guy was coming after him—just knew it. So he goes into hiding. He hides in the deepest, darkest hole in the earth and just hides. He don't tell anyone where he is. He don't let anyone know who he is, 'cause he knows what's after him. Do you wanna know what happened next, girl?"

"Yes, please," Christine said quickly. "What happened?"

Lou grinned widely. "It took the Phantom _two days _to track this idiot down. Two days! The guy had hidden in what he thought was the safest spot in the world, but the Phantom was there, right behind him the whole time."

"Is he actually…real?" Christine asked breathlessly. "My boyfriend said he isn't."

"Oh, missy, he just said that to make you feel safer at night—don't want a pretty little thing like you getting all worked up. But this Phantom is as real as you and me. He can figure out where people are. Now, this just gets better. My buddy's cousin told my buddy. This guy had hidden himself in this room once he got wind that the Phantom was after him. The room had no windows, nothing except a door, and the guy locked it all up nice and secure. It was in the top of this building, all hidden away like. Somehow the Phantom got up that building, _into _that room, and killed the guy. The best part was this: the Phantom goes back to the bosses, right? And he's like, 'I've killed him.' And they're like, 'Prove it.' So the Phantom tells them to look in this room. They have to break the door down. The guy was in there, dead as anything, swinging from a rope. And the door was still _locked from the inside_."

Lou leaned back, looking supremely satisfied at his delivery of the story. Christine's heart was beating rapidly, and she blinked quickly. This monster—this Phantom—he found that man in one day…found the man hiding in the most secretive spot…

"So I would think that the Phantom could help you find your daddy," Lou said after taking a long draught of beer, obviously thirsty after telling such a long story. "He'd find him in days. You just gotta pay him what he wants. He works for money, see. He does anything for the right price. And finding a nice daddy would probably be easy for him."

Hope flared in Christine's chest, and she nearly sobbed with relief.

"Where—where can I find him?" Christine asked desperately.

"He's tricky, apparently," Lou said, savoring the gossip. "No one knows where he lives—if he even _got _a place to live. You just gotta look—be in the right place at the right time. Tell you what, girly. You go down to the bar on Chesterfield Avenue later tonight. Know that place? I'm sure someone can help you there."

Christine leapt from her seat. "Thank you," she said breathlessly. "Thank you, thank you…"

Lou grinned, lighting a cigarette as he did so. "Good luck, honey."

Christine burst out of the dark, dank bar and into the day that was brighter than before.

She was going to find her father.


	5. Chapter 5

Raoul accosted her the moment she walked in.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, somewhat frantically. "I've been trying to get a hold of you for hours!"

She looked at him and stared, clutching a paper bag in her hands. She was still very shaken up.

"I—I just…went for a walk," she whispered. She held up the bag. "I got dinner, too."

"What?" He looked angry and upset. "Why didn't you answer my calls? Christine! I was so worried!"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry."

He sighed heavily and rubbed his face, then leaned over and pulled her into a crushing hug, resting his chin on her head.

"Please don't do that again," he said. "You have no idea how worried I was. I was about to call the police. Answer my calls—or text me…or leave a note or _something_…"

"I'm sorry," she repeated into his chest. The bag crinkled against him, and he pulled away at last. He forced himself to smile and then kissed her lightly.

"You sure you're okay? You're a little white."

She nodded. "I'm fine. Can we…eat now? I'm hungry."

In truth, her stomach was twisting, but she didn't want him to ask her anymore questions. They ate at the table quietly. She chewed her sandwich mechanically, not paying attention to the taste or texture. The food was just a cover-up. The night's events had truly startled her.

She had followed the old man's advice and had gone to the bar on Chesterfield Avenue. It was horrible and dirty-looking, and loud music and raucous laughter was booming out of the windows and door. She had dressed as conservatively as possible, not wanting to attract any attention at all. Luckily, there wasn't anyone at the door scanning for I.D. The bar looked like its patrons wouldn't have cared anyway if she was underage and would have served her regardless.

Taking a steeling breath and thinking of her father, she walked inside, instantly overwhelmed. It smelled like dirt and cheap cologne and smoke and alcohol with an overpowering scent of body odor. She covered her nose for a minute, grimacing. People were everywhere, drinking in the booths, playing pool at the green-covered tables, dancing…suggestively to the awful heavy metal music. It grated on her ears. This was not a place she would ever feel comfortable in.

Skirting around the large crowds, she scurried over to the bar and sat on a stool in the corner, pressing her hands over her eyes and taking a few deep, calming breaths. The worst that could happen here was no one would know where to find the Phantom—that was it. She repeated that to herself a few times.

"You gonna order something or what?"

She looked up. The bartender was scowling at her a little, his broad belly nearly touching the counter.

"Oh, hi," she said breathlessly. Then she felt stupid and cleared her throat. "Uh…actually, can I just have some ice water?"

"What?" he shouted. He hadn't heard her over the music and talk.

"Water!" she hollered back. His expression darkened instantly.

"You think you're funny or something?" he growled.

"No—no!" She pushed her curls away from her face nervously. "I'm just…thirsty right now. I'll order something else later. Please?"

He glared at her for a few more moments, as if trying to decipher her true intentions.

"Get her her water, Ed," said a voice next to her, and Christine looked, startled to see that a man had slipped into the seat next to her.

The bartender rolled his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh, his belly sticking out and then deflating. Then he turned away, grabbed a smudged glass, filled it up with tap water from the filthy sink, and shoved it at her.

"Thank you," Christine said, clutching it tightly.

He rolled his eyes again and shuffled off.

"Thank you," Christine repeated to the man next to her. He grinned at her. His teeth were stained, probably from years of smoking, chewing, and drinking.

"No problem," he said, and he leaned closer to her. "Name's Joe."

"Christine," she said automatically—and then mentally berated herself. She should have made up a name.

"I've never seen you here before," he said. "You here meeting someone?"

She shook her head. "Not really."

"Oh, good." He was a broad man. His red plaid shirt stretched tightly over his wide shoulders. It was unbuttoned a little, and she could see dark hair on his chest. His hair was cropped close, and he had dark stubble on his face. His hands were huge and hairy, and his eyes were dark. His overall appearance reminded her of a lumberjack.

"Yeah," she said, unsure of what else to say, and she took a sip of water. She choked a little at the taste, and the man—Joe—laughed at her.

"Yep, the beer here is better than that horse swill," he said. "Let me buy you a drink, Christine."

A woman near her shrieked with laughter, her voice shrill and piercing, and a headache began to throb in Christine's brain. The metal music was nearly hurting her, and the shouting that was required to be heard wasn't helping anything. She just wanted to get out and run back to the safety of Raoul's apartment. It was quiet there.

"Actually, I'm looking for someone," she shouted.

"Oh." His face crumpled in angry disappointment, and he looked like he was getting ready to leave, but she reached out and grabbed his flannel sleeve.

"Wait—I just—I was wondering if you could help me find him." She wondered if she was going to be laughed at when she asked him. Raoul had laughed at her—maybe the people she needed to talk to weren't here that night.

He pulled his arm away, but he stayed. "Sure," he said grudgingly. "Who you looking for?"

"Uh…" She trailed off and looked around, as if the Phantom would be there. Then she leaned closer to Joe, not wanting to be overheard. "Someone told me to come here to ask about…um…the Phantom…"

Instead of laughing, Joe's untamed, bushy eyebrows pulled up and then down. "The _Phantom_? Girly, do you even know what you're talking about?"

"Yes…" she said hesitatingly. "I need—I need to talk to him. And someone told me to come here…"

"Look," he said shortly. "You seem like a nice girl. You don't know what you're saying. You don't want to talk to the Phantom."

"Yes, I need to!" she said urgently. "Please—please, I need to. He's my only hope." It came out sounding rather melodramatic, but it felt true to her. Raoul had told her yesterday that the police had no new leads. Christine knew that if his disappearance went on too long, he might be declared dead, and the search would end. That could not happen.

"What are you talking about?" Joe snapped. "You want someone killed? Who? Some boyfriend of yours?"

"No!" she said. "I just need him to find someone for me—someone who went missing."

Joe looked at her up and down, his eyebrows still furrowed in doubt. They nearly met, making him look even duller—almost like a caveman lumberjack.

"Please," she tried again, giving up. "It's my father. Please, please help me. He was taken nearly ten days ago. I need him found. He's my entire world. He's all that I have. He's my only family left. Please."

Joe raised his hands in surrender. "All right, just don't start crying all over me," he said gruffly. "I get it. But missy, if you're looking for the Phantom, then you really are desperate. Maybe it would be better if you called the cops and got them to sort all of it out…"

"No, they haven't done anything!" she said. "The longer he goes missing…I'm just afraid that…" She couldn't finish the sentence.

Joe rubbed his cropped hair in agitation. "Okay," he said shortly. "Okay, girly. I'm going to do this for you, but don't go blaming me when the Phantom screws you over, all right? I gave you fair warning."

Christine nodded instantly, feeling more hope burst in her heart. She was another step closer.

"Stay here," Joe commanded shortly, and he heaved himself up and pushed through the crowds. Christine awkwardly sat there, staring at the scratched, dirty bar top. A few people had carved their initials into the old wood. _A.S. H.G. B.P. _She briefly wondered who they were, why they were at this awful place taking the time to cut into the wood beneath them.

Something buzzed in her pocket, and she realized it was her cell phone. She pulled it out and looked at the screen. _Raoul_. He was calling her. She ignored it and then saw that he had called her four other times. He had also texted her several times, asking where she was.

_I'm getting really worried, Christine. Call me back ASAP._

She bit her lip, and she was just about to text him back and say she was out for a walk when Joe returned. Quickly, she pushed the phone back into her pocket and watched. He had another man in tow. The new man sat down by her, and Joe stood next to him. They had formed a semi-circle around her, as if they had trapped her in this dark corner.

"So," the new man said. He had a long cigarette between his fingers, and he took a drag. "Joe says you're looking for someone."

Christine nodded, watching him. He seemed to be the polar opposite of Joe—with long, greasy hair tied back at the base of his neck, a clean-shaven face, a tall, lean frame…He was dressed in casual jeans and a horribly-matched jean jacket.

He blew the smoke at her, and she resisted gagging.

The man smiled widely, like some lecherous snake, and he said, "You look like a nice girl, so I'm gonna help you out. The Phantom's got some business with a couple…_buddies _of mine. He'll be there to talk to them in a few days."

"Where?" she said, her heart beating in her throat.

"Just a few streets away from here. Jackson Street. It's arranged for him to come on Tuesday night."

"What time?"

The man shrugged, taking another drag and expelling the smoke through his nostrils, clearly relishing the taste of the cigarette. "He never arranges real times. He just shows up, 'cause he's some freakish ghost. I swear, that thing is _not _human. I saw him once—with my own eyes, I swear it. There's a reason people pay him to do the stuff they won't. He'll do it, and he doesn't even care. He'll never get caught, either. He's a freak—he comes straight from Hell, let me tell you."

Christine shivered a little, and the man grinned again when he saw.

"You're right to be scared," he said. "You sure you still up for this?"

"I…have to do it," she said weakly, convincing herself as well. "I have to."

"All right, whatever, it's your funeral," he said. Joe nodded at his side. "Just make sure to bring loads of cash to get him interested. Or…any other way you can." He looked her up and down suggestively, and Christine blushed brightly.

Then he smirked at her blush, stood, stretched, and said, "Have fun tonight, you two." Joe clapped him on the shoulder and muttered, "Thanks, man," before sitting back down by Christine.

Christine's heart was racing with a mixture of emotions—hope, joy, terror, dismay…She didn't know what to feel.

"So, got everything you needed to know?" Joe said. His knee was pushing against her thigh. She inched away from him.

She nodded. "Yeah, thank you so much. I…I have to go now."

"What?" His expression darkened. "You just got here! And I told you what you wanted to know…Don't I deserve a little thanks? Come on, babe. I have a car out back…" To her horror, he reached out and slid one of his heavy hands between her legs. She flinched away. His face only grew more upset.

"Stop being such a prude," he snapped. "You come here, and I get you your stupid water and get someone to tell you what you wanna know—and what you wanted to know was pretty secret, right? But I helped you! It's the least you can do." He shoved his hand back down to her inner thigh and pushed his fingers upward.

"Don't _touch _me!" Christine gasped, literally shoving him away. She stumbled off the barstool, nearly tripping, and she pushed past people, blinded by tears. People shouted after her, but she ignored their words, reaching the door and bursting out into the cold night air. She broke into a run, not even glancing behind her. She needed to get away—as far away from that place as she could.

When she was several blocks away, she caught a bus and rode it back near Raoul's apartment, trying to control herself. She couldn't let him know what had happened, ever. The bus ride managed to calm her down somewhat. The creaking and swaying and smelly heaters were familiar, and she leaned against the window and stared at the passing streets, forcing her breathing to slow and her heart rate to become calm again. She had looked behind when climbing on the bus. No one had followed her. Apparently Joe didn't think she was worth chasing. That was a relief.

Before going back to Raoul's apartment, she bought some sandwiches at a nearby deli to cover for her absence. The entire night had been full of too many emotions, and she was exhausted.

Together, they watched a movie, and it helped her unwind. She lay on his chest, feeling his heartbeat and smelling him. The cold night air had helped blow away the smell of smoke and alcohol that had clung to her hair, and she had changed into pajamas after dinner, shoving her clothes out of sight.

Raoul was playing with her curls, pulling on them absentmindedly and stroking them. She relaxed into him, feeling comforted by his strong, warm body. He talked to her quietly about work, about the funny joke one of his coworkers told him, about the problems he had had to solve and how he had done it. It was all so very normal. It was crazy to think that only a few hours ago she had been listening to someone tell her about a _Phantom_…And she had believed him. She had to. She knew that she was going to be at the right street on the right night. She had to take the chance.

She tried not to think of this spectral over the next few days. She did not know anything about this man. She did not know if the Phantom had ever simply _found _someone before. Apparently the people he was required to find were all people he was also required to kill. But if she told him that she did _not_, under any circumstances, want him to kill who he found, then surely that would be acceptable? It would be one less thing to do for the same price.

Another thing she did not know was the question of just how _much _she would be required to pay. She couldn't simply ask someone on the streets. She would just have to do her best and hope that would be enough. Her father hadn't saved up very much, as his paycheck had always been rather small and he had spent most of it on groceries and bills. She couldn't ask Raoul for money. And so she just had to withdraw everything from the bank account and pray that it would be sufficient. Her apartment still demanded rent, and she paid it reluctantly. If her father would indeed be found in a matter of days, then they would just return to the apartment, and so she couldn't simply move out.

Then there was Raoul. He was always worried about her, and she knew that he wouldn't let her just leave the apartment and not tell him where she was going. She was touched by his concern but also faintly annoyed at how she was always forced to work around him. He had taken to calling her during his lunch breaks as well, just to check up on her and make sure that she was "doing okay." She always told him that she was fine, and he told her to call him if she ever needed _anything_.

Still, he was a very good man. She hated living off of his charity and pity. He bought all the groceries and paid all the bills. She burned with shame whenever he made her meals or bought her necessities like soaps and shampoos. She told herself that it was only for a few more days. Once her father was found, it would stop, and she would find a job, and she and her father would have enough to get by once again.

The plan to leave had been done sloppily. It wasn't a good lie—but she couldn't think of any other way. At dinner the day before, she said nervously,

"Guess what?"

"What?" he said, looking up from his pasta.

"One of my friends from high school called me this morning. She's going to be in town tomorrow for a convention, and she wants to have dinner with me."

"Really? What convention? I didn't know anything was going on."

"Oh—oh. I don't know. I didn't ask." She was furiously fighting a telling blush. "It's for her company. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know…Yeah. I'm going to dinner with her, and then we'll probably see a movie or something. So I'll be back…late."

"That sounds fun," he said easily. "I didn't know you were still in touch with any of your friends from high school."

"Yeah," she said evasively. "We were good friends, but she moved…away to go to school." She tried to tease to get herself to relax. "I haven't been out of high school that long, Raoul. Only a few years…I think you like to make me seem older than I really am."

He grinned at her and said jokingly, "Anything to help me sleep at night. I'm an old man, you know, and all my friends are jealous of my hot young girlfriend…"

She threw her napkin at him. "Gross. Five years isn't that much."

Thankfully, the lie was accepted, and Christine somehow felt relieved yet anxious. Apparently Raoul did not sense anything was amiss, because he was his usual wonderful self. He helped her clean up the mess from their meal and talked to her about a fancy new restaurant that was opening and how they needed to go sometime soon. To her amusement and faint embarrassment, he spent the rest of the evening making joking comments about how young she was and how he was a cradle-robber.

She had had some reservations about their age difference when they had started dating. He was her first boyfriend, and that was strange enough, but the five-year difference was also a bit challenging for her. It was strange to her to think that the handsome young sixteen year-old she had first seen when she was eleven was romantically interested in her. However, Raoul had quickly proven to be the most wonderful of men. He was never intentionally condescending—he had never used his age against her, and he had never used _her _age against her. So far, the only time it had ever gotten them into a bit of hot water was during that awful party with the old senior associate. Even Gustave had been surprisingly-accepting of her relationship with Raoul. She had been sure that he would take issue with their gap in age, but once he had been introduced to Raoul, Gustave had been adamant that Raoul was the perfect man for her.

As the night progressed, Raoul's good humor and comments helped her keep her mind off of what would be required of her in a matter of days, yet when she went to sleep, her dreams were full of shadowy figures and her father's violin music.


	6. Chapter 6

It was time to go, and she was terrified.

Raoul had come back from work, and he was sprawled out on the couch, reading a horrible-looking book about economics or business or…something else she couldn't understand. She was getting ready in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. She needed to look like she was going out—but she didn't want to have to walk down those streets in heels. She needed good running shoes…just in case. And so she dressed in casual jeans and a nice blouse that could be easily concealed by her coat. While Raoul was at work, she had guiltily rummaged through his clothes and had found a baseball cap, which was currently rolled up and stuffed in her coat pocket.

She went back to the guest room and shrugged on her old coat. Raoul had tried to persuade her to let him buy her a nice, thicker winter coat, but she hadn't let him yet. No, she would hold off on his extended charity for as long as she could. Nervously, she felt the pocket of her jeans. The small wad of money was in there, and she tried not to shake as she thought of what she was going to do with it tonight.

"You'd better get going if you want to get to the restaurant in time!" Raoul called to her.

She left the room then, knowing she couldn't delay it anymore. She needed to be sure that she was at the appointed street. If she got there too late, she might miss him—it…

"Have fun," Raoul said, smiling at her. "Text me if you're going to be out late, okay?"

She nodded. "Okay." Then she kissed him and left hurriedly, not wanting him to sense her anxiousness.

The night was bitterly cold, and she shivered as she entered it. She rode the bus down to the appointed street, huddled in the front near the driver. Raoul was right—crazy people rode the bus at night. Although it wasn't too late, she knew that soon the buses would be full of…scary people.

When it was her stop, she thanked the driver demurely and stepped out onto the sidewalk, looking around in slight fear. The bus rolled away, and there was no more going back. She would have to be here—she would have to find him. Taking out Raoul's hat from her pocket, she jammed it on over her curls and tucked the rest of her hair into her collar. She didn't want anyone to see any distinguishing features on her at all. Zipping up the coat to her chin and pulling the visor low, she shoved her hands into the pockets and set off.

Christine walked through the streets quickly, her heart pounding louder with every step she took. The few people she passed did not glance at her, and she was grateful. She didn't want any distractions. All she wanted was to focus on her task of finding the Phantom, and that thought was scaring her much more than she would have wanted to admit. She wondered what he looked like. As she hurried through alleys and side roads, she thought of Joe from that awful bar, and she envisioned the Phantom to be much the same. She was sure that he was broad and burly, with a leering smile and rotted teeth. He probably stank of blood and sweat and chose not to wash himself regularly. To add to the picture, she could not help but envision a bloody, short knife clasped in his large, hairy hand, ready to kill anyone.

She shuddered.

Pulling the coat around her more tightly and lifting the collar a little higher, she hurried past a loud bar and headed for the narrow street—Jackson Street. Thankfully, it appeared empty. Dank, dirty buildings lined the street, and the sidewalk was overgrown with dead weeds and spotted with stains. Graffiti was on several buildings, proclaiming crude messages and gang signs. It was still relatively early in the evening, just barely after sunset. She had wanted to come as early as she could to make certain she did not miss the Phantom.

Quickly, quietly, while no one was around, she settled herself by the side of a building, just by the end of the street, next to a disgusting dumpster. She would wait right here and watch it all night long. He had to enter _some _way—the street only had two outlets. It was more of an afterthought street, connecting to two larger ones, almost like an alleyway, really. She sank as deeply into the shadows as she could and kept the hat low, obscuring her face as best she could but still keeping visibility high.

The pointy brick was painful against her thin back, but it kept her awake during the long hours. She stared at the narrow street dutifully, watching as some men entered and exited. However, most came in groups of three or four, laughing loudly and crudely, and she knew instinctively that none of them were the man she was looking for. A cold breeze kept sweeping through, and she shivered and tucked her hands inside her coat, hoping to keep herself warm through the night and praying that it wouldn't snow. People had been known to freeze to death while sleeping on the streets during the winter.

As the night progressed, she felt her anxiety rise. What if he never came? What if he had already come, and she had missed him? What if she wasn't able to speak with him? What if she couldn't recognize him? What if he refused to help her? What if she went up to him, and he shot her in the head? Tortured thoughts ran through her mind, and she continued to stare at the street, forcing her eyes to remain open as the night passed slowly. She checked her phone, the light illuminating her hiding spot like a beacon. It was nearing midnight. Her back was sore and her behind ached from sitting on the cold cement. She shifted uncomfortably and texted Raoul.

_Hey! Things are fine. We're at her hotel room now—you know, girl talk lol. Don't wait up, k?_

A few minutes later, there was a reply: _Thanks for letting me know. See you in the morning. Lol hope you don't have too much fun! _

She put the phone back in her pocket and crossed her arms over her chest, her teeth chattering. She hoped she didn't catch a cold.

Finally, when it was very dark and extremely quiet, something caught her eye. It was like a shadow moving along the walls—almost silent, save for the soft sounds of material rustling. She sat up a little straighter and watched, her heart racing, as the shadow continued. She could not make out any features whatsoever; it was like a figure of black. Quickly, it slipped into a building, and Christine breathed raggedly.

She had seen him—the Phantom. She knew she had. How many people could say that they had seen the Phantom and lived? There was a menacing, overpowering presence about him, and Christine suddenly realized that her palms were sweating and her mouth was dry. She did her best to remedy both as she waited. It was probably better to wait until he had his business completed. After that, hopefully he would have a few minutes to spare. As she watched the street, she thought of her father, and his smiling face gave her courage. She felt emboldened for a few moments.

It was growing colder, and Christine thought she would have to wait a long time until he emerged, but she was wrong.

Her heart picked up again as she saw the figure slither out to the street again. It continued down the way without pausing once, a shadow seeming to billow out behind it. Without a second thought, she stood and followed.

The Phantom moved very quickly, and she was having trouble keeping up. However, she only had to follow him to his home. Then she would knock and arrange a business deal with him. That suddenly seemed very easy in comparison to following a shadow in the dark streets.

She was practically running to keep up with him, though she tried to be as quiet and inconspicuous as she could. There was something eerie about the way he moved, about the way his shadows jumped from each object, but Christine counted on seeing the shadows disappear when he turned down a street or alleyway.

She followed him for several minutes, a stitch beginning to form in her side. A little desperately, she wished that his home was nearby so she could stop running after him. It was beginning to become increasingly difficult to keep up, and oftentimes she had to sprint to catch up as best she could.

He turned down a long, dark alley, and she stopped for a moment and peered around the wall, making certain that he hadn't turned around. To her complete surprise, the alleyway was empty. A little nervously, she walked forward a few paces. She could see the other end, but the Phantom had disappeared. A terrible feeling overcame her. The trail had been lost—she hadn't had the chance to speak with him, and her father wouldn't be found! Giving a foolish, despairing gasp of tears and horror, she began to run to the end of the alley, hoping that he had simply turned the corner and she could pick up the trail again.

When she was about halfway through, a hand suddenly shot out of the darkness.

Faster than she could comprehend, too fast for her to even scream, she felt herself being slammed against the wall of the alleyway. The rough, uneven stone scraped her back, shooting fierce pain up and down her frame. The hand grabbed the front of her coat and literally picked her up off the ground by several inches, her feet dangling. Another hand appeared and took her jaw, long, hard fingers digging into her cheeks. Terrified, she watched as two glowing yellow lights appeared just above her.

"And just why exactly are you following me?" a terrible voice hissed out.

She blubbered out something unintelligible, and the fingers pressed harder into her face. She felt her teeth cut the insides of her cheeks, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

"Speak, you idiot!" the Phantom snarled. "My patience is thin."

"Please—please," Christine cried. The fingers pressing into her mouth made it difficult to speak, but she did her best. "Please, I need your help."

There was an audible pause, and the hand at her jaw suddenly moved to her head. She flinched, expecting a slap in the face, but he only took off the hat and pulled out her dark, curly hair. He held it in his hand for a moment.

"A woman?" came the awful voice, slipping out of the darkness. The two yellow lights narrowed slightly. "Time and time again it is proven that your kind _can _sink to unimaginable depths." Suddenly, she was dropped, and she yelped at the harsh contact with the cold ground. She hit her elbow hard, and it began to throb immediately. Shaking, she pushed herself to her feet and looked toward the shade in front of her. It was much too dark to make out anything definite, but she could see that he was frightfully tall. The two glowing dots appeared to be his _eyes_, and Christine shivered a little. It was obvious that this was not a man, but a monster—a terrible monster her father had told her about in his stories.

"Well?" There was weight and impatience in that single word.

Quickly, she stammered, "I—I'm sorry for following you...sir," (the word felt awful in her mouth) "but I need your help."

"Yes, you've already told me that—quite pathetically, too. Hurry up about it."

Her cheeks flared up, and she hurriedly chanted, repeating her rehearsed speech in a breathless rush, "My father was taken several days ago. I can't find him anywhere, and I need him to come home. Please…he means everything to me. I love him so much."

"Unfortunately, _love _does not pay my fee," was the cold, indifferent response.

Christine fumbled with her pocket and took out the wad of bills, tentatively holding it out to him. Before she could blink, it had been snatched from her hands, and there was silence as he examined the worth of the contents. It was very dark, and she wondered how he was able to count it. Perhaps he could see in the dark, like a real phantom.

Finally, he said icily, "Is this supposed to amuse me?"

"What?" she whispered tremulously. "No! I—"

"I have never done anything for such a pitiful amount," he said, sounding annoyed and disgusted.

Christine felt the blood drain out of her face, and her hands trembled as she clasped them together. "Please, it's everything I have," she said tearfully. "I've done everything I can. The place where I worked closed down months ago, and I can't find another job. I don't have anything left to give. I'm begging you, please take it and my thanks. I need my father—please. Please." She began to sniffle a little.

"Save your tears," he said, uncompassionate and obviously irritated. "I do not work for empty promises and vows of thankfulness and blessings. Yours isn't the first story I have heard, and I do not want to listen to anything more." Her money was tossed at her feet. "You may find me again when you have enough." So saying, he turned and began to walk away.

In complete panic, Christine ran after him.

"Wait—!"

He continued to walk, ignoring her.

In high danger of succumbing to absolute hysterics, she reached out and clutched at whatever she could to ensure he wouldn't leave, crying, "No—_please!_"

With inhuman speed, he turned around and took her by the throat. She choked on her scream and frantically pulled at the hands that had cut off her supply of air. She was too close to him, and she could now see that he wore a dark mask over his face. Christine was so overwhelmingly terrified that she felt her vision begin to swim.

"If you ever touch me again," he hissed, "I swear that I will kill you."

He then roughly shoved her away, and she stumbled to the ground, gasping in air and clutching at her neck. When she looked up, the street was empty, and she was alone.


	7. Chapter 7

"Christine? Are you sure you're okay? You've seemed really down this past week."

Christine nodded, dully poking at her dinner. Her heart was heavy, and she felt sick.

There was a concerned pause, and Raoul's hand reached out to take hers. "You know that I'm worried about you. Maybe you need to visit a hospital again—just for a check-up, you know."

She pulled her hand away. "I'm _fine_, Raoul," she said insistently, and she pushed a few forkfuls of chicken into her reluctant mouth. Food didn't taste the same anymore. It was all bland, meaningless.

It had been almost a week since her horrible encounter with the Phantom, and she was completely hopeless. The police had found what they thought had been a lead, but the person in question had had an undeniable alias, and now they were back to square one. Nobody even knew _why _Gustave was taken. Still, she couldn't help but feel that every time she talked to the leading detective, he seemed less and less interested in the case. Once he had even subtly suggested that there was the possibility that Gustave had left on _purpose. _Christine had cried and Raoul had yelled at the detective for a full ten minutes. The case was soon going to be filed away, and no one would care what had happened to Gustave Daae.

The fright she had felt from the Phantom's presence had haunted her for a few days, and she had been scared that he would show up and kill her like he had threatened. She had stared at the window in the guest bedroom for three nights in a row. Thankfully, she had managed to control herself enough not to go running to Raoul in terror, managing to hide nearly everything from him from that night.

She had picked herself up from the street that the Phantom had shoved her onto, gathered the money he had thrown at her, and she had limped and trudged to a bus station, waiting with tears quietly pouring down her face. The bus came after several long, awful minutes, and she rode back to Raoul's apartment, crying silently. It was in the wee hours of the morning by the time she arrived at his complex, and she snuck in and went straight to the guest bathroom. Luckily, Raoul wasn't up waiting for her.

She took a long, hot shower, hissing as the water splashed against her raw back. Her elbow continued to throb dully, and her mouth was sore and still tasted like blood. She brushed her teeth a few times to get rid of the taste, and then she turned around and examined her bare back in the mirror, grimacing. There were several long, red scrapes. Her right shoulder blade was cut pretty badly, and it was still slowly dribbling out blood. She looked in the cupboards, rummaging for a first-aid kit and then pulling out a Band-Aid when she found one. For several minutes, she tried various ways to stick the Band-Aid over the cut, but she couldn't reach. It was in an awkward position, and she couldn't get it over. She knew she probably looked stupid as she reached around to her back with her arms crisscrossed, straining to get at the spot. It continued to ooze out blood, and she nearly cried again.

As she stood there naked in the steaming bathroom, feeling ready to collapse, she distantly heard Raoul's alarm go off, and she rubbed her hands over her face, wrapped a towel around her, and snuck back into the guest bedroom, catching a glimpse of Raoul as he emerged. He was dressed in exercise clothes and tennis shoes, obviously getting ready to go out for a run. Luckily, he didn't see her, and she was able to dress in comfortable pajamas and lay down in the large bed, staring at the wall. After another hour or so, she heard Raoul come back from his run, and she pressed her hands over her eyes before forcing herself to get up again and not dissolve into tears. She didn't want him to question or be concerned about anything that had happened the previous night, and that required that she act as normally as she could.

When she emerged, he was ready for work, dressed smartly in one of his nice, well-fitting business suits. He smiled to her when she walked over to the table, and she sat down and returned his smile as best she could.

"Did you have fun last night?" he said, putting a hand on her back in a gesture of affection as he put her breakfast in front of her.

"Yeah, it was great," she said, resisting the urge to wince or flinch in pain. "Sorry I was out so late."

"No, I'm glad you were able to get out with a girlfriend and have fun," he said, walking over to sit across from her. "What movie did you two end up seeing?"

"Uh—" She thought furiously and then rattled off the first current movie that came to mind.

"Really? How was it? I didn't think you were into movies like that."

Christine said hurriedly, not wanting to talk about her 'girls' night out' anymore, "She wanted to see it—I didn't like it very much. But it was fun."

"That's good," he said.

They ate in relative silence, and Christine felt her eyes aching from tears and from exhaustion. She toyed with her cross necklace and glanced at Raoul occasionally. Thankfully, it appeared that he sensed nothing was amiss. Before he left for work, he kissed her goodbye and told her to call him if she needed anything. As soon as the door shut, she returned to her bedroom, curling up on the bed and falling into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Yet the fact that her last hope had not brought her father back to her ate at her, and she was feeling herself begin to fall into a crushing downheartedness.

She managed to hide her tears from him, only crying when he was at work or at night. Still, he had at last sensed her melancholia, and it was worrying him. She had taken to staring at the television for hours again, not moving, not wanting to get up and exert effort. He often came home to find her sleeping on the couch, the television droning in the background. Once he dragged her out to a fancy restaurant for dinner. It had been horrible. On his day off, he had taken her to a museum that he knew she had always wanted to go to. She spent most of it near him, staring blankly at the displays.

And he always asked her what he could do, what she wanted, if she needed anything…He was the best boyfriend anyone could want, but she had strange emotions going through her. She didn't want anyone around her, and yet when Raoul was gone she wanted him back. When he was around, she didn't want to talk to him, but when he didn't talk she wondered why he wasn't. It was all too confusing, and there was no way she could explain it to him. Sometimes she thought that she was insane.

"Hey, Christine?" He captured her attention again, and she looked at him. "I know you're still really down and everything…And I'm sorry for bringing this up, but…I told you a few weeks ago that my parents were coming down for the holidays. Well—actually, it's only my mom now. My dad couldn't get work off. And she's flying in in two days. So…"

"I'll go back to my apartment," she said automatically.

"No!" he said immediately. "No, you can't go back there. No. I was just warning you so you weren't surprised when you woke up and found another person here. No, please stay here. You can just sleep in my room." He had looked toward his food evasively as he said that. "No big deal."

"I can sleep on the couch," she said, feeling a little chill fill her stomach.

"No, I wouldn't want you to do that. That would be awful. So…yeah. You can just sleep with me. It's not a big deal, I promise."

But it was a _big deal _for her. She thought about it for the next two days, wondering if she could persuade him to let her go back to her apartment—but secretly not wanting to go. She wanted to be here with him, be with the only person who cared about her, but she didn't want to be here with him and his bed and his _mother_.

He picked her up from the airport one evening after work, and Christine had nervously cleaned his apartment, even going to his room and tidying it up as well. She didn't want to be there, and she stood awkwardly in the front room, waiting, gazing around and ensuring that everything was in place.

True to the season, one afternoon Raoul had brought back a very small pine tree, and he had coaxed her into decorating it with him. It had turned out to be very fun and had managed to distract her for a few precious hours. December thirteenth had been an awful day for her, though, as that was the day she and her father began to celebrate. She would always be St. Lucia, dressed in a white robe with the crown of candles on her head (after coming to America, they had had to improvise the crown in many different ways). There was no one she could serve coffee and mulled wine to. She knew that France had its own traditions, as she faintly remembered her mother baking special cakes and covering the tree with nuts and candies, but Raoul seemed to be content celebrating the holidays the American way.

It was getting harder for her to pretend to be happy, especially with Christmas coming so soon. That had always been a time for her and her father—the services at the church and the food and the warmth and the love…She missed him terribly, and she wondered where he was, if he was being treated well, if he was thinking of her and wishing he could celebrate with her.

When they arrived, the apartment seemed crowded, flurried with activity as Raoul tried to get his mother settled into the guest room. Christine stood in the kitchen awkwardly, under the pretense of making sure that the gingerbread biscuits she was baking didn't burn. Raoul had encouraged her to go ahead and use the kitchen whenever she wanted, and so she had baked something in hopes of not seeming completely useless and also with the vague wish that perhaps she could win his mother over by feeding her sweets.

His mother was a thin woman—perfectly stylish in her fitted winter sweater and slacks. She was wearing heeled winter boots. Christine tried not to stare at them as they clacked around the apartment. Her hair was a light brown, bordering on blonde, and it was cut and styled fashionably. She wore a lot of large gold jewelry, and her nails were unnaturally long and painted a vivid red.

Raoul introduced them, and Christine blushed and smiled and felt uneasy. His mother smiled at her as well. They had met once years before, but neither of them gave any acknowledgement to that fact.

They sat at the table, and Raoul gave his mother—Annette, Christine suddenly remembered—some wine and set the plate of Christine's gingerbread biscuits on the table as well. Throughout the awkward conversation, Christine noticed that Annette did not eat one biscuit, though Raoul had a couple and even complimented her on them.

When it was time to retire, Christine hurried to Raoul's room so she wouldn't have to talk to his mother anymore. She was half-hoping that she would be able to fall asleep before Raoul came to the bed, and she quickly changed into her pajamas in the adjoining bathroom and then entered the empty room.

Awkwardly, she pushed the sheets up and slid under them. The bed smelled like Raoul, and the sheets were cool and crisp. The mattress was very soft. Everything about it was comfortable, and yet when Raoul entered and lay down beside her only minutes after she did, her comfort levels dropped significantly. She stared at the ceiling, wondering uncomfortably if she was supposed to talk to him…or cuddle with him…or something.

They had cuddled many times, but always on couches in front of movies. It was different when they were in a _bed_. Beds were usually where…other things happened. And they hadn't ever done that.

He rolled over, and she looked at him, blushing in the dim light. He smiled a little at her and then leaned over to kiss her, putting his hand on her cheek and stroking her skin with his thumb. After a while, she pulled away, gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and slowly dropped to sleep, very aware of his hand on her waist.

His kisses were different in the bed. They suggested more, wanted more, and she was afraid. Two discomforting nights after his mother's arrival, he kissed her more deeply than he ever had before. His hand was down on her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt him shifting, pushing the blankets, and soon she felt him climb _on top _of her. He was heavy, and she could feel his warm hand push under her shirt to feel the skin of her stomach. She instantly turned away, breaking the kiss, and there was a small pause. He then began pressing kisses to her jaw and neck. The room was too dark, the bed too big, and she was feeling childish and afraid.

"Please don't," she whispered, pushing on him slightly.

He pulled back a little to look at her, and even in the dim light she could see his frown.

"It's okay," he said, sounding a little confused. He put a hand on her cheek and tried to kiss her again, but she turned away again. A long, awkward pause followed.

"I don't understand," he said at length, hurt in his eyes. "I've been patient. I've waited for months…I've been there for you whenever you've needed me…I just really…I really want to be with you, Christine. I care about you so much."

She was embarrassed and ashamed, and she almost started crying again. This proved it. She had never, ever asked about his previous relationships and what exactly they had entailed, though she knew there had been several. She hadn't wanted to know.

He was waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered.

He quickly rolled off of her and sat up, his legs hanging over the edge of the bed. He leaned over and sighed harshly, rubbing his face.

"I don't get it," he said shortly. "I've tried to do everything you've wanted. You're so confusing sometimes, you know that? I just try to do what you want me to do. And I'm sorry about all this stuff with your dad, but you just _won't _even try to move on. I don't know what it is. I don't know what your problem is, because you never tell me. And I'm trying to make this relationship work, but I'm the only one trying. I want us to be closer, but you're always pushing me away. I don't even know why I'm doing this." He stood, and he glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."

"No, please—" she tried, reaching out for him. He ignored her and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

* * *

"Raoul."

He paused on his way to his dresser, and she hurriedly slid out of the bed and rushed toward him, flinging her arms around his waist and burying her face in his bare chest. She started crying pathetically.

"I'm so sorry," she wailed. "I'm so sorry! You're right—you're right about everything you said! Please, please, I'm so sorry! I'm such an awful person. I'm the worst girlfriend ever! I promise I'll do better!"

After a moment, she felt him pull her arms away from him, and for a horrifying second she thought that he was merely going to push her away, but he only looked down and kissed her.

"It's all right," he said. He wiped away her fast-falling tears with his fingers. "Stop crying, Christine. I should be apologizing to you. The stuff I said last night was…awful."

She shook her head quickly, her curls bouncing around. "No, it was true." She hiccoughed. "Sorry."

"No, I shouldn't have said it. You've just lost your dad, and I know how much he meant to you."

What he said made her turn white. _You've just _lost_ your dad…I know how much he _meant_ to you… _So Raoul thought that Gustave was…

"I know I need to be more patient," he continued. "Last night I…" His neck turned red, a sign that he was embarrassed, and he rubbed the back of his head and chuckled nervously. "I was a little too excited to have you sleeping next to me. I said that stuff because you kept your head on straight. It made me mad. I'm really, really sorry." He pulled her in and hugged her tightly. "And hey. I know that you don't want to…do _that _until you're married. I really do think that's great. There aren't a lot of people who do that nowadays. So if I ever…pressure you like last night, just slap me or something. Wake me up. I'll respect what you want. Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay."

He let her go, and then he said, "I was just coming in here for my running clothes. I hope I didn't wake you up. You can go back to sleep. It's still pretty early."

"All right." She looked up at him. "I'm sorry again. About everything."

"Me too."

She went back to the bed and slept fitfully for another few hours. When she woke, she could hear Raoul talking with his mother in the front room, and she showered and readied herself before cautiously leaving the safety of his bedroom.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Raoul said to her. "Want some breakfast?"

She looked at the clock on the wall. It was eleven o' clock. Feeling a little embarrassed, particularly under the gaze of his mother, she said quietly, "No, thanks. I'll just wait until lunch."

Awkwardly, she sat down on the empty couch, wondering if she was allowed to be part of this conversation. Raoul smiled and winked at her, and it calmed her a little to know that he wasn't still upset about last night.

The two of them talked about people she didn't know—family, presumably. They laughed at old memories and talked about his sister's wedding that had been last year. Christine stared at the wall, uninterested. She rather wanted to go out of the apartment, get away from them, but she sat silently, stoically, not moving. To be polite, Raoul's mother asked a little about Christine's life and family and offered some condolences about her father. She, too, thought that he was…

_No. He wasn't._

The only thing she wanted was her father returned to her. She knew he was out there, waiting for her somewhere, but she did not know how to get to him. A few times, she had tried to get herself to talk to Raoul about it and see if he would lend her enough money for the Phantom, but she was too scared to tell Raoul about all the lies she had told him. And what if he didn't even believe her? Raoul had clearly told her that he believed that the Phantom did _not _exist. What if Raoul thought she was crazy and was making up stories to get money from him? And through it all, there was an overwhelming feeling of guilt whenever she thought about it. She was not dating Raoul for his money, and she didn't want to take advantage of his financial status. The last thing she wanted was for Raoul to think that she was a freeloader. He was the most amazing man, and she didn't want to offend him in any way.

And yet the very idea that her father might never return to her was almost too unbearable to imagine.


	8. Chapter 8

Christmas Eve came, and Christine felt her spirits rise minimally. Mrs. de Chagny was leaving the day after Christmas, and Christine had been counting down the days. There were only two more—_two more_. Then she would be freed from the discomfort. She would go back to the guest bedroom and not feel guilty every time Raoul touched her under the sheets.

She made a vow to herself. After the holidays were through, she would go out and find a job. She would work as hard and as long as she could, and she would take all the money back to the Phantom. Even though the thought of him still chilled her, he had _told _her to do that. That meant that he could find her father. The police contacted them less and less frequently. Her father was disappearing. She would work as long as she had to. Until her father was found, there was hope that he was still out there. He was waiting for someone to find him, because he somehow couldn't get back by himself.

Incredibly, that thought cheered her a little, and added to her small happiness at the thought of Raoul's mother leaving, she felt rather good Christmas Eve. The skies were darkly overcast. It was going to snow tonight, and tomorrow would be a white Christmas. She had bought a present for her father, and she couldn't wait to give it to him when they were reunited.

The only thing that dampened her mood was when Mrs. de Chagny subtly ordered her out of the kitchen. Christine had been trying to help. She had always considered herself an above-average cook (years of practice from caring and cooking for her father), but from the way Mrs. de Chagny looked at the food she was preparing, Christine had felt all confidence in her cooking skills evaporate.

"Go ahead and relax with Raoul, sweetheart," Mrs. de Chagny said lightly, taking away the cutting board and knife from Christine. "I'll finish this up."

Raoul was watching a game, and Christine sat by him dejectedly. He half-consciously put his arm around her and pulled her closer, his eyes fixed intently on the game. She wasn't that interested, but she wouldn't say anything to him. He was always watching things he didn't want to watch just for her. She had a penchant for old musical movies, and he had silently suffered through such classics as _Singing in the Rain _and _The Music Man _and _Carousel_. Their tastes in music were very different as well. She liked listening to the soundtracks of such movies, as well as popular operas and classical composers such as Chopin and Debussy and Schumann. He enjoyed popular music, but he was nice and always resisted complaining whenever she listened to her music.

"Do you want to watch something else?" he then asked distractedly, as if he could read her thoughts.

"No, this is fine," she said softly. He was dressed nicely in dark jeans and a red polo, and she rather wanted to snuggle up next to him, but she could hear Mrs. de Chagny still clattering around in the kitchen, so she contented herself with leaning her head against his shoulder.

After a few minutes, she craned her head to look up at him.

"I'm going to Mass tonight," she said. "It's something me and my father always did on Christmas Eve. If that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," he said, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the game after a moment. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, you should stay here…with your mom." She glanced around to the kitchen. Mrs. de Chagny was busily working, looking appropriately festive in her dark green cardigan and cream sweater. Christine glanced down at her old jeans and faded purple shirt, feeling a little embarrassed.

Raoul said, "We're going to Mass tomorrow morning—so you're welcome to come if you don't get enough tonight."

"Yeah, heh." She cleared her throat. "I might stay for both services. I'm not sure…" The church she attended held two services on Christmas Eve—one at ten o' clock for the parents with small children and one at midnight for those who were able to stay up later.

"Okay," he said, looking back to the game. "Just let me know either way so I don't worry."

After a rather awkward dinner, Christine went and put on one of her nicer dresses (Raoul had taken her to her apartment a few weeks ago so she could get the rest of her clothes) and made up her face a little. Raoul had tried to insist on driving her, but she wouldn't let him. Finally, Mrs. de Chagny had snapped,

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Raoul, let her take the bus if she wants. You'd probably get stuck in traffic."

Clutching her coat around her tightly and crushing her small purse in her hand, she said goodbye to Raoul, awkwardly dodged his farewell kiss, and darted out of the door, feeling a little relief when she was at last away from the concerned gaze of Raoul and the occasional blank glances from Mrs. de Chagny. She tried not to think of her or Raoul anymore. She wanted to focus on her Father in Heaven as well as her _Pappa _tonight. She would pray for him and reverently celebrate the birth of her Savior.

She was outside and nearly at the end of the block when she touched her neck and realized that she had forgotten to clasp the gold cross necklace on in her haste to get away and get to Mass. She stopped short and had a small panic attack, wondering if she should go back and get it but then telling herself she shouldn't. She actually turned back and forth several times before huffing and throwing up her hands in defeat, trudging back to Raoul's apartment. It had started to snow lightly, and she brushed the flakes from her hair and face when she entered the building.

It was warm and the entire place smelled like Christmas. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, listening to the gentle murmur of conversation as people talked to their families and loved ones. She knew she was going to be a little embarrassed attending the Christmas Mass all by herself, but she wanted to do it for her father. He would be there with her in spirit.

As she rummaged in her purse for the spare key Raoul had given her, she paused for a moment. She could hear some of the conversation drifting out of his door, and, feeling a little silly, she pressed her ear against the crack.

"…just wish she had let me drive her," she heard Raoul say. The television was turned down to a low murmur, and she had to listen very carefully. Their voices were quiet and muffled, but she could hear what was being said. They were speaking in French, and she was suddenly grateful that she spoke French as well.

"Don't worry so much about her," his mother said. "You're running yourself ragged trying to care for her. I don't even understand why…"

She heard Raoul sigh a little, and she imagined him rubbing his face, as he often did when he was agitated. "Mom, do you have to talk about this _now? _Come on. It's Christmas."

"Well, when else am I going to be alone with you?" she sniffed. "That girl doesn't leave you alone. If you're not at work, she's with you wherever you go. I'm surprised she didn't ask you to go with her to Mass tonight."

"Christine just really needs support right now," Raoul said. "She's still really mixed up about the whole thing that happened with her dad."

"Well, I don't see why _you_ have to be the one bending over backwards to try to help her. She has a lot of baggage, and you don't need that, especially not now—not with your promotion coming up." There was a gentle rhythmic clinking, and after a second Christine realized that Mrs. de Chagny was tapping her nails against a hard surface.

"She's my girlfriend," Raoul said stiffly. "That's why I'm doing it."

"But _darling_," Mrs. de Chagny said sweetly. "I just don't understand. Really, I don't. This girl has got nothing going for her—just out of high school, really, and she's not even going to college! She has no job, no family…She's living here on _your _dime. It just doesn't make sense to me, sweetie."

"I like Christine," Raoul said. "What more is there to _get?_"

"Yes, but you've liked other, better girls before. Remember Sarah? That nice girl you dated a few years ago? We adored her! She was beautiful, and she was going to _Princeton_. I mean, darling, come on, be serious now."

"She was boring," said Raoul. "I didn't like her _that_ much."

"Oh, and Christine is more _interesting _than someone going to one of the top universities in the nation?" Mrs. de Chagny suddenly snapped. "She's got the personality of a piece of paper, Raoul. Now I know this might hurt your feelings, but I just want what's best for you. You know that, right? Listen to your _maman_."

"What have you got against Christine, anyway?" Raoul said, his voice just as curt as his mother's. "Look, she's here on _my _dime, like you said. It's _my _money that I've earned. It's not your business how I spend it. Christine needs someone to help her out right now."

"She'll _always _need someone to help her out!" Mrs. de Chagny said. "Why do you think she's dating you, Raoul? Hmm? Why do you _really _think she's with you? Honestly, I can't believe how someone like you could fall into that silly girl's trap so easily! I thought we raised you better than this!"

"Just stop it, Mom," Raoul said sharply.

"No, I don't get it!" Mrs. de Chagny pressed angrily. "You're twenty-five, Raoul! It's time you stopped playing around and settled down! You're wasting your time with this girl—and your playtime is over! I'm sure she was pretty and fun in bed, but there are thousands of other girls better at everything than she. I have twenty friends in my phone contacts that all have daughters whom you would just _love_, I know it. They're all beautiful and smart, unlike your silly Christine."

"Stop it!" Raoul repeated angrily. "Mom, come _on!_"

"No!" Mrs. de Chagny said. "You need to get married, Raoul, and I will _not _have my grandchildren coming from that stupid, pathetic little Swede!"

Christine couldn't listen anymore. She stumbled blindly down the hallway and nearly broke her neck trying to get down the stairs in her short heels. The doorman asked if she was all right, and she nodded blankly as she stepped back out into the Christmas Eve night. It was snowing harder now, and she turned down a street and simply began to walk.

The words she had heard burned her insides, but it somehow left her feeling colder than before. Her eyes were stinging, and tears steadily dripped out and onto the sidewalks. She sniffled and wiped at her face with her shaking fingers.

It was all true—everything Mrs. de Chagny had said about her. Every unkind word was true. Raoul deserved someone ten times prettier and smarter than she was. However, she knew that she wasn't dating Raoul for his money—she knew she did like _him _as a person—but still…the wealth did nothing but help his appeal.

All the store displays were lit up in festive decorations, signs proudly and crookedly telling her to have a _MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR! _She looked away from them, feeling the florescent glow of the buzzing signs warm her cheek. A few cars passed her, but the streets were empty, and she walked with her head downcast, huddled in her coat against the snow and light winds.

Mrs. de Chagny was right. She needed to get away from Raoul. She was all wrong for him. He deserved someone his family adored, someone he could rely on—not someone he had to constantly take care of like a child. And she was! She knew she was still a little girl. She couldn't be Raoul's equal. She couldn't talk about complicated politics or finances or sports or any of the other things he enjoyed. She hadn't even known about any promotion—he hadn't told her about it, probably presuming that she wouldn't understand it. She couldn't even _sleep _with him because it scared her too much. The most she could do was kiss and cuddle—and little children did that as well. She hadn't ever done an adult thing in her entire life. She had gone through high school quietly, never drawing any attention to herself. The bravest thing she did was audition for the choir, and when she made it, she sat silently in the soprano section as the other couple girls chatted all class about boys and parties. Christine had never gone to a teenage party, had never tasted alcohol, and had never tried a cigarette or done drugs. She hadn't even _kissed _anyone before she had started dating Raoul. She had run home to her father every day after school, not wanting to be around other people longer than absolutely necessary.

Her feet began to ache slightly from walking in her heels, and her exposed shins were freezing. Christine looked up and saw that she had walked the several blocks to the park she and her father had used to sing in. It had been instinctual—as if his violin music had been carried on the snow, enticing her to their special spot.

It was completely empty. She looked around and saw that no one wanted to be out in the weather. They were all bundled up together, excited for Christmas morning. She felt horribly alone and sick, and she wandered off the path a little, looking for a sheltered spot so she could sob in peace.

The dead twigs and sticks scratched her face a little as she pushed he way through, but she eventually found a very small grove that was somewhat sheltered. The dead brown grass didn't have any snow dusting it, and she gingerly sat down, feeling the cold earth shoot all over her frame. She drew her knees to her chest, buried her face in them, and began to sob. She leaned against the trunk of the tree and cried and cried, hating herself and the mess she had gotten herself into. She cried for her father, she cried for Raoul, and she cried for herself—because she hadn't been able to do anything, in the end. She had tried so hard, but it hadn't amounted to anything.

For several long minutes, she prayed, begging God to listen to her, to help her in any way that He could, but when she paused to look up, the pathway of the park was still empty, it was still snowing, and she still felt worse than ever before.

She rubbed her legs for a few moments, trying to warm them, and she sniffled and wiped her tears on her coat sleeve, whimpering and hiccoughing. When she sat up straight, she took in a deep breath, tried to regain her senses, and broke down into more tears. Nothing had changed. She was still in the same situation, and yet she didn't have the courage to get out of it. If she broke up with Raoul, that meant that she would truly be alone. The thought was awful. But staying with him was awful as well. She hated Mrs. de Chagny more than she had ever hated anyone, and she whispered mean things into her knees. Then she cried and begged God to forgive her for the cruel things she had said.

Something buzzed near her, and she looked and realized that her phone had gone off. Still choking on pathetic sobs, she pulled it out and saw that Raoul had texted her.

_Hey! Guess you decided to stay for the midnight service. Merry Christmas! Come home as soon as you're done, k? Call me if you need a ride. Miss you. _

She gave an angry cry and tossed the phone aside. It landed near the edge of her protected glade, and she sobbed angrily as well as miserably. Why would he lie to her like that? Was he making fun of her? Was he sitting there with his mother, planning the best way to tell her that she needed to move out as soon as she could? Well, she would beat them to the punch! She wouldn't let them push her around anymore. She would go right up to him and tell him that—

"You're that girl."

Christine gasped, and her head shot up. Her vision was still blurry with tears, and it was very dark, but the dim lamps of the park illuminated a tall man in front of her. He was looking down at her curiously, his face buried in shadows, too dark for her to see.

"You're that singing girl."

Singing girl? Yes…she used to sing here…with her father…who was gone. Christine shuddered on her tears and wanted the man to go away and leave her alone.

"What are you doing out here in this weather? It will damage your voice."

She put her face back between her knees so she wouldn't have to see that man anymore.

"Go away," she cried. "Leave me alone."

There was a long pause, and suddenly the man said, as if he had just realized something, "I remember. You are _that _girl. Your father was taken."

"Please go away," she whispered weakly, humiliated, defeated. Couldn't she just cry in peace? Was she not allowed to be sad like other people?

When she looked up to ensure that the man was gone, she was startled to see that he had not moved. She curled closer to the tree, as if it would come to life and protect her.

"Go away," she repeated. "Please!"

To her horror, the man reached out an arm, and she saw long, spindly fingers stretch out toward her. She looked up and saw that the man's face was _reflecting_ the dim light of the lamps. He was wearing a mask. She knew who this man was.

And she started to scream.

She screamed and shrieked, covering her face with her arms, terrified. He was back to kill her! He had tracked her down, and he was following through on his threat! Christine nearly tore her throat she was screaming so loudly. She needed someone—_anyone_—to hear her. Please! Please, someone…!

"Miss? _Miss?"_

Christine peeked between her fingers, nearly blinded as a bright light was shined in her eye. She blinked and put a hand out to shade her vision.

A policeman knelt down beside her, concern written across his broad features.

"Miss, are you okay? What are you doing out here?"

Christine looked around wildly. "There was a man!" she cried hoarsely. "A man was going to kill me!"

The policeman stood up and looked around suspiciously, a hand on the gun at his hip, but after a minute, he knelt back down.

"There's no one here now, Miss. He must have run off. Can you describe him to me?"

Christine shook her head. "I didn't see his face—he wore a mask," she said hysterically. "He was going to kill me! I know he was!"

"You're fine now," the policeman said. "I'm here to protect you." He looked around again. "What are you doing out here alone so late at night?"

Christine gulped down more sobs and wiped away her fast-falling tears with her fingertips. "I was just…" she whispered. "I was…going to go to Mass…and I…got lost."

"Do you live around here?" the policeman asked. "I can walk you home."

Christine almost nodded, but then she opened her mouth and said, "No. I live down in the east side."

"All the way over there?" He looked worried. "Did you walk here, Miss? Are you feeling okay? Can you see me?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I just want to go home now…"

"All right. Let me get a car for you…" The man pushed his walkie-talkie up close to his mouth and told the person on the other side that he had a girl here who needed a car to get home. Christine grabbed her purse, crawled over for her phone, and then stood up, brushing the dead grass off of her dress. She took in a shuddering breath, looking around. It was still snowing, and she shivered insanely. There was no one in sight—the Phantom must have run off, like the policeman said.

"Come on. I'll walk you to the road."

She followed the policeman silently, grateful for his concern. When she looked at her phone, she realized that it was nearing one in the morning. Raoul was probably sleeping peacefully, unconcerned about her, confidant that she would come back to him.

A police car was waiting for them, and the officer opened it up. She thanked him very sincerely, nearly in tears again at his care, and then she slid in to the blissfully-warm, leathery-smelling interior of the small police car. It drove off, and the officer driving talked to her quietly for a while, asking normal questions like, _What do you do? How's your family? _And so on. She answered them normally. She was going to college…her father was fine…She didn't want to tell anyone else. She didn't want to become a burden to yet another person!

The policeman dropped her off outside her old apartment building, and she thanked him and ran inside. It was a little chillier than was comfortable, but she welcomed the creaky staircases and chipped walls. This was her home. This was where she and her _Pappa _lived.

Digging out her key that she never removed from her purse, she unlocked the door easily and was met with a blast of cold, musty air. She flipped on all the lights, took off her shoes, and spent the next hour cleaning the grimy, dusty apartment. She kept her father's door shut, though. She wasn't ready to look inside.

Then she realized that her clothes were still at Raoul's. So she got into bed in her dress, stared at the wall, and fell deeply asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Christine woke unpleasantly the next morning. Her head was hurting, her mouth was dry, and her entire body was sore and achy from sitting on the cold grass for so long and indulging in a lengthy pity party. She opened her eyes groggily and realized that she was being woken by the insistent buzzing from her phone. With a flopping, reluctant arm, she reached out and grabbed it, knowing who it was, because he was the _only _person who called her.

"Hello," she mumbled sleepily.

"_Christine!" _He was panicked. "_Christine, where are you?"_

"I'm at…my apartment…" she managed to say.

"_What? Why are you—? Look, never mind. Why didn't you tell me? I freaked out when I woke up and couldn't find you anywhere! You can't keep doing this to me. I'm going to have a heart attack."_

She yawned, rubbing her eyes and wanting to go back to sleep. "Sorry, Raoul," she said, not feeling very sorry at all at this moment. "I'm just…still really tired…"

There was a loud sigh on the other end. "_I don't get it. Why are you at your apartment?"_

"Because I wanted to come here," she said, starting to get somewhat annoyed. She was tired and grumpy now. "I can come here whenever I want. I'm not a prisoner."

"_I never said you were_," Raoul said shortly, sounding equally irritated. _"I just wish you'd tell me things sometimes instead of running off and making me worry all the time._"

"I didn't _run off_," she said, truly angry now. "I had the worst night of my life last night, and the last thing I wanted was to come back to your snooty, condescending mother who hates me. I didn't want to spend Christmas Eve feeling judged and stupid. And now I have to spend Christmas morning listening to you yell at me." She sat up and spat bitterly, "Merry Christmas." Then she hung up and threw the phone across the room with a loud, angry huff. The phone hit the wall and landed with a dull _thump _on the floor, still all in one usable piece.

Feeling empowered by her speech to Raoul and silently congratulating herself for managing to say something to him that she truly felt, she reluctantly climbed out of her old bed and went to the bathroom. It took nearly ten minutes to get the hot water started in the shower, and she stood there naked, folding her arms and alternately lifting her feet from the freezing tile floor. When it was at a slightly hotter-than-comfortable temperature, she stepped into it and sighed with pleasure.

However, the longer she stood in the steaming water, the worse she felt. She felt panic begin to rise just below her stomach and make its way up to her brain. What had she just done? She had just yelled at the only person who now cared about her. She had insulted him and his mother, had deliberately acted in ways that would make him worry, and had hung up on his phone call.

It was always like this with him. She knew it would forever be. She would be the one crawling back to him, begging him to forgive her. He never did anything wrong. She was the stupid one in the relationship—she would be the one causing problems. After all, hadn't he defended her last night? He had told his mother to…stop. And that he liked her. And that she needed help. It was…noble of him, wasn't it? Noble to say those things? His mother had torn her apart, and Raoul had told her to stop it.

As she stood, she paused and then turned off the water suddenly. She could hear someone knocking loudly on the door. Her stomach flipped, and she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself securely before heading out into the front room. Goose bumps rose on her skin at the chill of the air, and she went over to the door and stood on tiptoe to peer into the peephole. It was—it was Raoul.

Feeling horrified and relieved, she unlocked the door with one hand, keeping the other one firmly clasped to her towel, and she opened the door.

"Hey," he said, blinking at the sight of her in a towel.

"Hi," Christine said. Then she realized that his mother was behind him, and she was mortified. She was strongly tempted to slam the door shut. Mrs. de Chagny's lip curled at the sight of her. She blushed brightly and looked back to Raoul in a valiant effort to keep composed.

"I…brought your clothes," Raoul said, holding out the traveling bag. "I thought that…you might need them."

"Oh," Christine said, choking a little. "Thanks…Yeah. You can…see…that I do."

He forced out a little bit of laughter, though it died quickly, and they were left in an awkward silence.

"Also I brought your gifts," he said hurriedly, and he put the bag down on the floor and set a few brightly-wrapped presents on top of it.

"Oh," she said again, nearly in tears. She wanted to run up and hug him and beg him to forgive her, but the towel and his mother made it all…rather awkward. She simply stood there, her hand on the knob, her hair heavy and water dripping down her back. Then she took a step backward.

"Do you…want to come in?" she asked hesitantly. "I can…change into some real clothes…or…"

"No," Mrs. de Chagny said shortly. "We're going over to my sister's house for today."

"Oh," she said for the third time. Then she blushed deeper. "Have fun."

Raoul was watching her face carefully, but she was staring at his neck. She didn't want to see the expression in his eyes. He was undoubtedly furious at her.

"Yes. Have a good holiday, Christine." Mrs. de Chagny looped her arm in Raoul's. "Ready, darling?"

He nodded, and it looked like he was going to reach out to touch her, but he merely said, "Merry Christmas, Christine." And they turned around and walked down the stairs. Christine stared after them until she couldn't hear their footsteps anymore. Then she pulled the things inside her apartment and slammed the door shut.

It took all her effort not to call Raoul over the long hours of the next day. She sat huddled on the sofa underneath a blanket, the heat kept low to minimize the bills, and she stared at the phone that she had set across the room. He hadn't called or texted her once. She wondered if this was his way of telling her that it was over between them.

She wanted to call and cry and ask him to forgive her, but the way that his mother had looked at her effectively stopped her. Raoul was probably relieved that she wasn't pestering him. He was probably thanking his mother for helping him get rid of his obnoxious, clingy little girlfriend.

The presents he had brought her were sitting on the small, scuffed kitchen table, unopened and gleaming dully in the dim light. She couldn't bring herself to open them. She wondered if Raoul had opened the presents she had given to him. They were kind of pathetic, she thought. She had given him a CD he had been wanting, a documentary about his favorite sports team, and an old book of French love poems. She had found it while wandering around an antique shop weeks ago. The more she thought on it, the more embarrassed she became. It had been silly, disgustingly-sentimental, and stupid. She loved old books, and the bookseller had assured her that it was one of the first editions, published sometime in the early twentieth century. So she had bought it, had taken it home and proudly showed her father, and she had written a message on the inside cover in careful French.

_Raoul,_

_Thanks for all you've done for me. You've made me a better person in so many ways. I'm so glad that you're in my life. You're the best boyfriend any girl could ask for, and I'm still amazed that you want me as your girlfriend. Thank you so much for everything._

_Merry Christmas!_

_Love,  
Christine_

It was now all so embarrassing. To have broken up on Christmas morning…probably right after he had opened the gift and read the inscription…She hoped he threw the book away. She didn't want him to keep it and be reminded of how stupid she was every time he looked at it. She could imagine his future girlfriends at his apartment, wandering around and looking at his bookshelf. Maybe some of them would be sickened by the old, brown book. They would ask what it was, and he would laugh and say that it was a gift from a girl who had liked him. They would make fun of her together. Christine buried her face in her arms, embarrassed and angered.

Everything had gone wrong after her father was taken. Everything had somehow crumbled, as if her father had been the only person holding everything together. Before that awful night, she had felt that her relationship with Raoul was at least stable (though she did often wonder just _why _it was he liked her), and though she had worried, she had prayed to God that they would all make it through okay. She had believed that they would.

The day passed slowly. All of the perishable food had gone bad, and she threw it out in disgust. That left cans and jars of an odd assortment, and she made herself a few mismatching meals, not really tasting the food as she simply pushed things into her mouth and forced herself to swallow. She stared at her phone and the presents on the table alternately, wondering when she would break, and which one she would break for first. For the hundredth time, she checked her phone. No new messages, no missed calls…She swallowed.

Although it was barely eight o' clock, she readied herself for bed, different phrases ringing in her ears.

_She has a lot of baggage…_

_Nothing going for her…_

_She's got the personality of a piece of paper._

_That stupid, pathetic little Swede._

_You can't keep doing this to me._

Maybe it would be better if she didn't intrude in anybody else's life. She just messed things up. She would get a job as soon as she could and be unobtrusive. Then she would find the Phantom again and give him everything she owned to find her father. He would return to her, and they would never bother anyone again. It would be just the two of them—no one else, ever. She wouldn't go around screwing up people's lives anymore.

She stared at her ceiling. Dull, orange streetlight filtered in through her thin drapes, making large shadows on the walls. Sometimes she found shapes in them. There were elephants and horses, monkeys, castles, butterflies, pirate ships…She rolled onto her stomach and watched the window. It was snowing again. The snow always turned ugly in the city. It froze over into a gray patch of disgusting ice, and the sidewalks would be dangerous. The snow in the parks usually turned brown from the dirt and dead grass. The snow in Sweden…She closed her eyes and sighed wistfully. She could have spent her whole life out there in that blinding, dazzling snow.

When her father returned, she would beg him to move back to Sweden. The only thing that had prevented it for the last six years was their lack of money. He had spent nearly his last Euro on their plane ticket here. He had taken her to France when she had been ten. Four years in Paris had done nothing but remind him of his wife, and so he had asked Christine if she would like to move to America—the land of the free and the home of the brave. Being only fourteen, she had been thrilled at the prospect of going to such a place, and so they had moved to a large city and hadn't been able to leave since. Gustave was paid less here because of his very poor English. They had done reasonably well in France because his French was fluent (if heavily-accented), but he hadn't known a word of English when he had stepped off the plane. Christine had spent more than half of her life studying English in the schools she had gone to, and so she had been his translator for the first couple of years.

It all seemed wonderful in her imagination. She and her father would go back to their motherland. She could just imagine the joy on his face as he stepped off the plane and heard Swedish spoken in every direction. He would probably cry, and then she would cry because _he _was crying.

She sighed deeply and closed her eyes, silently praying to ask God to protect her _Pappa _wherever he was. He just needed to hold on…for a little while longer…and then she would save him.

When she opened her eyes, she blinked and the frowned a little in confusion. The lights outside seemed even dimmer than before. She watched them, shrugged, and closed her eyes again.

However, a flitting of shadows across her eyelids made her heart jump, and she gasped and sat up, clutching the bedspread tightly in her hands in preparation to throw it over her head if she was in danger. She looked around her small room carefully. Maybe she was imagining things...She took a deep breath and mentally berated herself for being so jumpy and paranoid. However...when she looked into the corner by the door, she saw that the shadow appeared to somehow be getting larger.

Christine shrank back into her old, creaky headboard, covering her mouth. The shadow kept growing, and she was afraid it would take over the room and devour her. Two lights appeared within the shadow, and she was terrified. She let out a whimper against her hand, her eyes wide with horror. Her heart was pounding in her chest, as if it wanted to get out. She wildly wished that she was having an awful nightmare—that she was really asleep and that none of this was happening, but the pain in her chest from her pounding heart told her that she was awake and alive.

Then the shadow suddenly broke into its own entity, and it stood at the foot of her bed. After a moment, Christine realized, with even _more _horror, that the shadow was the shape of man. It was the man with glowing eyes—the Phantom.

Just as she opened her mouth to scream, he spoke to her.

"I would ask you not to scream," he said. His voice sounded…easy. _Casual_. "It really does give me a dreadful headache, and I do not have the time for that this evening."

Christine held the blankets up to her cheeks, leaving only her eyes, hair and fingertips visible as she watched him. He was here…to kill her. He had followed her home and was using this opportunity to finally silence her once and for all. Screaming wouldn't help anymore. He was too close to her. He could fire a gun with his eyes closed and hit her square in the head if he wanted.

There was a long, awful pause. She was crying a little. She didn't want to die. She hadn't found her father yet!

"Listen to me carefully," the Phantom then said, resting one of his long, black-enshrouded hands on the footboard of the bed. "I have a proposition to make to you."

Christine sniffled, shuddering a little on a sob. "I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I'm so sorry. Please."

"Stop sniveling," he snapped. "Be quiet and listen to me."

She obeyed. He might prolong her life if she obeyed him.

"I would be willing to find your father for you."

The air disappeared from her lungs, and she felt her heart begin to skip beats. Her head went oddly blank, and her stomach seemed to expand. "What?" she managed to whisper. "I don't…have any money."

"I am aware of that," he said irritably, waving his hand dismissively. "You will do something much different in exchange."

Christine whimpered. What would he ask of her? What could she have that would possible interest him? Something…immoral?

The Phantom continued to speak. "In exchange for your _voice_, I will find your father. Listen. Just listen. I have heard you singing. You have a remarkable instrument, but it is not properly tuned. I have never heard such potential in a soprano voice. You hold in your throat one of the most profound things the world has ever witnessed. In exchange for your father, you will take vocal instruction from me. You will adhere to a strict regimentation of music lessons and other such things. You will be dedicated _solely _toward music. In three months' time, you will audition at the Opera House. You are still young and your voice has not fully developed, so you will be playing lyrical sopranos and romantic interests—you will not be the leading voice of the company for a number of years. However, I will continue to tutor you until I deem you responsible and mature enough to continue on your own. After you earn enough to repay me, I will consider our bargain fulfilled."

She stared.

She wondered if he was crazy. He probably was. He…_killed _people. He was surely crazy! How could he propose this to her?

"I…I couldn't," she whispered. "I couldn't possibly…"

"You will accept if you wish for your father to be returned," he said coldly, threateningly. His glowing eyes narrowed slightly, and she squeaked in fright.

"I don't understand," she then confessed timidly.

"What more is there to understand?" he said. "I have little time for this tonight. If you want your father returned, you will accept my proposition."

Christine continued to stare at him, feeling her chest heave with a mix of polar emotions. Was he telling the truth? Would he really return her father if she…took voice lessons from him? If she auditioned at the _Opera House? _She shivered as she thought of her distant dreams.

"You'll bring my father back to me…if I take voice lessons from you?" she clarified hesitantly, her voice muffled because it was still hidden behind her blankets. "Why? I…I don't get it."

"I have already told you," he said, his fingers tightening on the footboard. "A voice likes yours does not deserve to be kept in obscurity. You need a proper guiding hand to mold your instrument into perfection. Now, do you accept?"

It was all rather sudden. What if she said no? Would he kill her? He might leave…and then her father would never be found. She had an uncomfortable feeling that if she said no and then earned enough money, he would not accept it out of spite for her refusal to accept his insane proposition. But if she said yes…she was agreeing to take _voice _lessons from a known murderer—a scary, horrible man!

However, he promised to bring her father back.

If she said no, she knew she would regret it until the day she died. Worse-case scenarios ran through her mind. What if she said no, when her father only had hours left to live and the Phantom could have found him and saved his life? What if she said no, and the Phantom went out and deliberately _killed _her father? What if she refused, and he got so angry that he killed _her?_

Two of his long fingers tapped impatiently on her footboard, and his eyes were glowing and piercing into her. Christine's mind was racing, and she thought of her _Pappa_, alone...maybe sick or dying...

She looked at the Phantom, praying that she wasn't somehow condemning herself to death, and nodded.


	10. Chapter 10

Christine hurried down the street, her coat wrapped around her tightly, wondering just what she was doing and if she was walking straight to her death. The wind was blowing hard, and it was pulling almost painfully at her long curls. She turned up her coat collar and buried the lower half of her face in the thin material, but her eyes were still streaming from the biting wind.

She looked at the numbers over the buildings, counting them down, her heart beating faster as she got closer. _1265…1267…1271…1273…_

At 1275, she stopped and stared for a moment. It was a run-down old theater, the empty marquee above it yellowed with age, the glass displays cracked and streaked with dirt. There were several worn pictures plastered around the building, displaying curvaceous women in very little amounts of clothing with coquettish smiles or looks of surprise. Christine blushed a little. The posters were advertising for some sort of…strip tease. Large block letters commanded her to _COME AND SEE WHAT YOUR GIRLFRIEND DOESN'T WANT YOU TO SEE _and _STAY ALIVE WITH AN X-RATED NIGHT OF FUN_.

She wondered if she was mistaken with the address, and she looked down toward the scrap of paper again. This was the correct place. Nervously, she glanced around. A few people were hurrying up and down the streets, not sparing her a glance, anxious to be out of the freezing wind. She couldn't believe that she was here, doing this…

When the Phantom had offered his ludicrous bargain two nights ago, Christine had agreed under the intense amount of pressure she felt. However, the long day that followed that horrible night found her panicking, unsure if what had just happened was real or not.

After agreeing to his deal, the Phantom had commanded her to show him where her father was taken. Trembling, she had climbed out of her bed and went to her father's door, pointing toward it wordlessly. He entered the room as if it was _his _bedroom—as if he had no qualms about strutting around her old apartment. He looked carefully at the broken items, lightly pressed his fingertips against the spot of dried, brownish blood, and opened and closed the window several times. Christine stared, leaning against the doorframe for support. Could it really be that the Phantom was before her…examining the crime scene? She pressed her hand against her forehead, as if to test that she still had some control over her body, to ensure that her mind still worked. Nervously, she twirled a curl around her finger.

Then he looked at her, his mask awful and black in the night, and told her to get him all the files her father had: birth certificate, baptismal certificate, financial records, old letters—anything at all. Christine had scurried around her apartment, her hands shaking fiercely as she gathered up everything she could find that the police had returned to her. The Phantom had taken them and then, to her complete surprise, told her that her first lesson would be the day after next.

"You will come to building 1275 at eleven in the morning. You will _not _be late. If you attempt to use this opportunity as a means to contact the police about me, I will know, and you will _sorely _regret it." The way he said 'sorely' had made her shiver fiercely. He gazed at her, his face still obscured by his mask, his beaming eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you understand?"

Christine nodded again quickly, too afraid to say anything. The Phantom had then disappeared, all of the files still in his hands. Christine had sat down on the floor, unable to take another step, and she leaned against the wall behind her, her mind rushing fiercely. However, she was unable to form a coherent thought. She knew she was thinking, and yet she couldn't pull a distinguishable thing from her mind. She sat there until morning, until hunger and soreness forced her to get up. As she was eating, she realized that she had to do this now. If she went back on her word, the Phantom would make her…_sorely _regret it. He would probably…find her father and do something awful. Christine rubbed her eyes tiredly, and then she found a scrap of loose paper and carefully wrote down the address he told her, afraid that she would forget it if she didn't jot it down.

She had argued with herself all the way to the building the next day, wondering if it might be some awful trick, worried that the Phantom was merely luring her into an easier murdering location. Briefly, she wondered if Raoul would care if she was killed.

Thinking of Raoul then angered her a little, as he had not contacted her since that awful Christmas morning. Feeling a desire to _show _him and be somewhat reckless, she walked toward the door and gingerly pulled on the handle. The door was very heavy, but it opened, and she squeezed through and into a dusty lobby. The carpets were worn and threadbare, a faded dark red, and the interior of the theater looked as if it once might have been pretty, but it had fallen into disrepair. The moldings were ornate and the trimmings were delicately-carved. There was a staircase off to the side that must have led to the second level, and there were a few doors that she didn't want to look into. Instead, she headed across the lobby and into the only open door. She could see into the dimly-lit theater, with its faded rows of seats and worn carpeted aisles. Still keeping her hands around the material of her coat and keeping it tight against her, she walked in and down the aisle as quietly as she could, wincing a few times when she heard the floor squeak under the pressure.

The house lights were on, and she could see the stage. There were dusty carvings around it—the masks of tragedy and comedy hanging right over center stage, staring down at her. She avoided looking at them and instead focused on the old, scuffed stage. There was a lingering smell in the stale air—she could smell old perfume and sweat, and it made her blush a little.

Clumsily, she pulled and pushed herself onto the stage. There were little tape X's all around, spot markers, and she looked into the wings, noting the complex-looking pulleys and flies. When she looked up, she could see a rickety-looking catwalk. The ceiling seemed to disappear in a mass of floating dust and ropes.

Even on this old, dirty stage, the feeling of being in front of hundreds of seats, waiting to be filled, was somewhat thrilling. She had only ever been onstage during her choir recitals. She could still remember her father sitting in the high school auditorium seats, beaming at her proudly. She had never auditioned for any solos, had never received any special recognition, and yet he had attended her recitals religiously. A few times, he had even scraped together enough money to give her a small bouquet of flowers afterward. It never mattered to her—with her father there, she had felt as if truly she had been the star of the evening in her old, drab, second-hand choir uniform.

There was suddenly a loud scraping sound, and she whirled around to peer off into the wings, feeling terrified. Her fist automatically clenched around the small can of pepper spray that she had in her coat pocket. However, soon she could see a baby grand piano being pushed onto the stage. It was on one of the piano dollies that she had seen her high school use.

With surprise and some feeling of alarm, she then saw that the Phantom was pushing it, bracing himself against the weight. The wheels were groaning with protest, perhaps old and hard to turn. She felt an overwhelming instinct to run—to jump off the stage and bolt out into the cold winter day. She actually took two or three steps backward, but by then the Phantom had pushed the piano fully onto the stage, and he was looking at her.

"Take off that ridiculous coat," he said. "You are slouching in it."

He then disappeared into the wings for just a moment, and he returned with a piano bench. He set it in its proper place and sat down, pressing down on the damper pedal a few times, as if cranking up an old, tired machine. Christine nervously unzipped her coat and pulled it off, trying to keep it close by in case she needed the pepper spray. When she found nowhere to put it, she placed it on the ground next to her.

The Phantom stood then and lifted the lid of the piano, supporting it with the stand and peering into the giant belly. He lightly plucked a few of the strings with his long fingers. Christine watched him, beginning to grow fascinated alongside her original horror.

Under the lights of the house and the stage, he really was nothing more than a man. He was extremely tall, towering over the piano, and she could tell that he was very, _very _skinny. His slacks and coat hung on him like a tent instead of clothes, and his coat was unbuttoned. His white shirt was tucked into the waistband of his slacks, letting her see more of just how thin he really was. It was almost humiliating to think that he was the spectral who had frightened her out of her wits and threatened to kill her. She was sure that, if needed, she could break a few of his bones with some well-placed kicks. He appeared almost frail.

His hands were covered in dark, thin leather gloves, showing a clear outline of unnaturally-long, bony fingers. They had finished with the strings inside the piano, and he returned to the bench. With a gesture of two long fingers, he motioned for her to come closer, and she obeyed, trying to control her near-frantic breathing. She was nervous and afraid.

Being closer to him did not help her feelings. His mask was strange. It looked to be made out of some sort of stiff leather. There were severe angles shaped into it, and she imagined that he must have extremely sharp features if he could wear it comfortably. His nose was long and straight, and the mask curved just above his upper lip, displaying his lower lip and chin. They were thin, and his skin had an unhealthy tinge of gray to it. She wondered if he was sick. The mask was tied to his face with near-transparent strings, which became lost in his black, shaggy-looking hair.

"Now," he said, his voice smooth and business-like. She couldn't help noticing how pleasant it was. It had a very rich, encompassing timbre to it.

"Tell me who taught you to sing," he commanded.

Her gaze snapped up to look at him, and she said shakily, "No one, really…I've been singing since I was a kid."

"You have had no proper instruction?"

"No…"

"Your father did not teach you?"

"No—he played his violin and I sang. That's all."

"Your mother did not teach you, then?"

A terrible lump formed in her throat.

"No," she managed to choke out. "She…she died when I was five."

He considered her for a while and then said, "How long have you been living in this country?"

She blinked, astounded that he knew she was not American—nearly no one could tell if she didn't tell them already.

"Six years," she said.

"You hide your accent well," he said. "That will be useful…"

Christine stared at him, bewildered. "How did you…?" Her accent was hardly there. Her English was excellent—better, in fact, than a lot of native speakers'.

"The name of Daae and the slight mispronunciation of some of the more difficult English words…It is not that difficult. No more talk. You will warm up with some simple scales."

He played the pattern for her a few times so she could become familiar with the exercise, and she couldn't help but notice how masterful he was at the instrument. His bony fingers were nimble and skillful, and they leapt over the keys with practiced, exact precision.

For a while, she sang scales, feeling nervous. She stared into the wings so she wouldn't have to look at him. He was silent, continuing to play, going high and then dropping when her voice started to strain—going low and then rising when she started to struggle. She knew she wasn't singing very well. She was far too nervous to release her true voice in front of this man. In fact, she was somewhat marveled that she was able to achieve these scales at all. Her legs were slightly shaky, and her fingers trembled and twitched, ready for flight in case the man suddenly leapt up and charged at her. He was a murderer, after all…he had been described as coming "straight from Hell." He had threatened to kill her, had physically harmed her…He was still frightening—even when she saw his thin frame.

He then tested her knowledge of theory, and she was embarrassed. Gustave had taught her some basic theory, and she had learned some in her choir class in high school, but, for the most part, she was woefully ignorant. He would play a note and then tell her to sing an interval of a major second or a minor sixth. He had started out telling her to sing an augmented seventh, but when she had stared at the floor in embarrassment, he had given up on complex intervals and had only asked for common ones. She had been able to do a perfect fourth using Wagner's Wedding March as her guide. That was the extent of her knowledge.

The Phantom held some sheet music out for her that had been sitting on the stand, and she took it, trying not to shake and avoiding touching him at all. She looked at the song. It was a simple English folksong, uncomplicated in melody and words. He silently began the introduction, and she sang it, sight-singing as best she could. She flubbed a few times, blushed, but managed to recover quickly, and she thought that she ended it rather well.

Then the Phantom stood and said, "The lesson is over for today. You will return tomorrow at the same time, well-rested and ready for real work."

Christine took an instinctual step backward when he stood. She felt embarrassed, but she merely held out the sheet music. He took it silently, put it under his thin arm, and walked off into the wings. It was completely silent. She then realized that he hadn't said a word about her father. What if he went back on _his _promise? What if he only said what he did to get her to come to this disgusting place?

After a few minutes of waiting, she knew he was not coming back, and so she picked up her coat and quickly slipped it on, grateful for the minimal heat it provided. Then she left the theater, crossed the old lobby, and pushed her way back out into the cold wind. The sky had become overcast, and when she looked at her phone, she realized that she had been in the theater for a little over two hours. It hadn't seemed that long, and she felt as if she hadn't sung that much.

As quickly as she could, she made her way back to her apartment, anxious to pull on three sweaters and a pair of thick, fuzzy socks to warm her numb toes. She would make hot tea, wrap up in a blanket, and maybe listen to the radio for a while. That would be nice. It would help her unwind from being so anxious all morning.

When she got to the door of her apartment, she saw, to her surprise, a bouquet of flowers on the doorstep. She looked around and then bent down to pick them up. The flowers looked a little battered, presumably from the wind, but they were still pretty. The perfume wafted up, and she lightly touched one of the cheerful daisies—her favorite flower. Then she noticed a small piece of paper haphazardly stuck in the flowers, and she plucked it out and read the hasty handwriting.

_Can we talk, please?  
Raoul_

She paused for a second, looking between the paper and the flowers. Christine wondered if she had enough willpower to toss the flowers down and leave them to shrivel up in the hallway in their plastic wrapper, but she knew she would never be able to. Raoul had given her some kind of hope—and she would cling to it. She was needy, pathetic…She pressed the flowers to her chest, the plastic crinkling in protest, and then she hurried inside to put them in a tall plastic cup—the only vase-like thing she had. She cut the bottom of the stems and filled the cup with filmy tap water before placing the bouquet in the center of her small dining table. Then she sat down and stared at them, twisting the scrap of paper between her fingers.

To prolong the time before contacting him (she knew she would eventually cave in and talk), she reached out and pulled the small pile of unopened Christmas presents across the table toward her. One by one, she picked them up and felt them beneath the wrapper. It was useless—they were all in varying-sized boxes. Then she looked at them, picked up the smallest one, and tore off the paper.

It was a pair of very pretty earrings, and she touched them slightly, feeling the metal warm at her touch. She wanted to wear them immediately, but she pushed them aside. With a sigh, she rubbed her face, pressing her fingertips into her eyes.

She had just survived a voice lesson from a murderer. He had been…startling, disarming…The next day she would ask him about her father. She vowed that. She would march right up to the stage and demand her father's whereabouts. If he didn't have them, she would turn around, and she wouldn't return until he did. That was the deal—her father for her voice.

The next present from Raoul was a book about several famous composers. She flipped through it excitedly. There were photocopies of the original music and notations, and she ran her fingers over a piece by Chopin, looking at his careful notes and markings. The pages held the delicious scent of a new book, and she smelled it carefully, letting herself smile a little.

What would her father say when he was returned? Would he approve of her actions? He would probably be worried about her. He was selfless, a good man. He would probably tell her that she never should have even _approached _the Phantom—she should have stayed far away from him. Her poor _Pappa! _She would have so much explaining to do when he was with her again.

Raoul was so thoughtful. She opened the presents. There was a pretty silver bracelet, a pair of warm blue gloves (her favorite color), and then, to her embarrassment, a beautiful framed picture of the two of them. She was smiling happily, embarrassedly at the camera, while Raoul was kissing her cheek. She couldn't even remember where and when the picture was taken. Maybe by one of Raoul's friends…She had been introduced to some of them once or twice when they had come over to Raoul's apartment for an important sports game.

After staring at the picture for a while, she pulled her phone out and played with it, staring, wondering. She was slightly hungry, but she didn't want to get up and make herself something. She needed to worry about the bills. Rent was coming up soon, and she had to pay for her utilities bill by next week…But she continued to stare at the phone. Finally, she sighed and composed a text message to Raoul.

_What's up?_

There—simple, noncommittal…Aloof if it needed to be and intimate if required. She hesitated for a second, and then she sent it. Then she grew angry at her lack of self control, shoved all the presents Raoul had given to her under the couch, curled up in a blanket, and listened to classical music on the radio for several hours, resolutely avoiding getting up to check her phone that she had left on the table.

After a while, her eyes grew heavy, and she sighed, closing them and nestling into the ragged old couch. It had been a place of happiness for her. Her _Pappa _told her stories on that couch…listened to music with her…spoke to her about her troubles. She sniffled a little at the thought, missing him fiercely.

While Grieg was played to her soothingly, she burrowed deeply into her blanket and fell asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

The Phantom brought up the subject of her father before she could.

She climbed up onto the stage, carefully watching him as he opened the lid of the piano a little and sat back down on the bench. Before he snapped at her, she pulled off her coat, carefully setting it near the edge of the stage so she wouldn't forget it...or the pepper spray. Then she took in a deep breath, gathered her courage, and opened her mouth to ask him about Gustave.

"According to your files, you were recently employed," the Phantom then said, looking at her.

She closed her mouth quickly, thought, felt stupid, and then nodded.

"The employment was terminated some months ago," he said, brushing his fingers over the side of the scuffed piano.

"Yeah," Christine said, somewhat embarrassed. "Uh…the bookstore I worked at…It was closed down. I haven't been able to find another job yet."

His gaze suddenly grew cold and stern. "You shall do no such thing," he said. "_This _is your employment. You have no time for anything else."

Christine became instantly flustered, and worries suddenly sprang out. "But…I don't have any money!" she confessed. "I…I have bills to pay—rent and gas and utilities…not to mention that I need to buy food and clothes and other things! I need a job soon."

"As long as you continue to adhere to your schedule of music, you will be provided for," he said shortly, his tone making it clear that there was no room for argument. "Now—you had employment of your own, and yet you do not have your own bank account. Correct?"

Christine said, "No, not really. I just gave my paycheck to my dad. He put it in the account."

"Did you have full access to this account?"

"Um…" Christine chewed on her lower lip and tugged a curl behind her shoulder. "No, not really. Dad gave me money if I needed to go grocery shopping. He paid all the bills and stuff."

The Phantom was silent, apparently thinking momentarily.

"Have you found him yet?" Christine blurted, hope and fear in her chest.

"Why would I be asking you these questions if I had?" he snapped. "Now, no more of this. You will sing."

"When will you find him?" she asked, nearly tearful.

"Soon," he said shortly, flicking through the music before him. "Listen to these exercises and then repeat them in a pure _ah_."

Christine tried again. "But you said—"

"Silence."

"Yeah, but you _promised_—"

"_Enough!_" he boomed, his voice seemingly shaking the dust from the curtains and the carvings. Christine jumped and squeaked, covering her mouth with her hand. She took a few hasty steps backward, terrified in an instant. There was complete silence, as if they were both letting the dust settle back down. She felt her heart thumping against her ribcage and wondered if she shouldn't just turn and run away.

"Enough," he repeated again, this time with controlled calmness. "You will sing now."

The exercises were difficult, especially as she was terrified that he would yell at her again so her tongue and jaw were tight. She kept a good distance away from the piano, watching him warily and pulling at a curl, twisting it around her index finger. He let her sing without comment for several minutes, and then the lesson began.

It became obvious that he knew exactly what he wanted and expected.

"Your breathing is dismal, your lower register appalling, your upper register underdeveloped, your timbre lacking, your interpretation nonexistent, and your posture is repulsive."

Christine blushed in embarrassment. No one had ever criticized her singing before. Everyone had said that her voice was "pretty." People in the streets sometimes gave her money to sing.

The Phantom continued. "It is clear that you are untrained. We will begin from the basics and work to the levels I know you can achieve—but that is only if you concentrate and dedicate yourself to the music. If you slack or become distracted, it will only interfere and slow your progress."

He gestured her to move closer to the piano, and she did so timidly, standing in the small bend and staring at the scratched stage. The Phantom stood, and she flinched slightly, but he made no notice. He stood in front of her, and she resisted whimpering. The top of her head barely brushed the level of his collarbone.

"Breathe," he commanded.

Her breathing was somewhat uncontrolled as a result of her panic, and as he observed, she noticed that his eyes were glowing with displeasure.

"No—quite incorrect," he said. "Your lungs are not located in your stomach, girl. Your sternum is collapsed; keep it high to allow more air flow."

He continued to teach her, speaking calmly about the proper technique of breathing and posture. Once he frightened her when his fingers brushed the air around the bottom of her ribcage, but he was merely demonstrating something, and he never once actually touched her.

She did not sing a single note for the rest of the lesson, instead concentrating on finding the balance in her breath work. Once he told her to lie down on the stage, and she hesitated, but as soon as his hand clenched into a fist in impatience, she was on the floor quickly. While she breathed on her back, she listened as he told her what was happening in her body, where the air was flowing, why her stomach was expanding and how the diaphragm would help her control her breathing.

After a while, her fear somewhat faded, and she began to listen intently, interestedly. He was…very smart. He was turning out to be an effective teacher. He spoke in terms she could understand—and when she didn't understand, he knew she didn't and said it another way so she could.

By the end of the lesson, she was feeling rather tired from all of the manual, heavy breathing that she had been doing, and when she checked the time, she saw that they had been working for over three hours. She glanced at the Phantom nervously, wondering if she would be safe bringing it up again.

"Uh—excuse me," she said hesitantly, blushing when he looked at her and then blushing deeper because she blushed. "My dad…You'll…let me know when you find him, right?"

"Naturally," he said shortly. He straightened his music, clasped it in his long hands, and strode off into the wings. Christine zipped up her coat and headed back out into the chilly winter air. The snow from Christmas was stuck in a permanent gray ice, and she carefully avoided the patches as she made her way back to her apartment. Her breath rose in full, thick spirals, and as she walked, she continued to think about her lesson and her breathing. What he said seemed to make so much sense…And when she thought of how she used to breathe before when she sang—the shallow, natural breathing that she had always used while talking—she felt a little silly. Of course she needed to breathe differently while she was singing!

Her apartment was very cold, and she risked turning the heater up just a few more degrees. It was lonely there, and she flipped on the radio to keep her company as she readied herself.

Raoul had replied to the text she had sent, and she had seen it the morning after, having slept on the couch all night in a rather uncomfortable position. Twisting her neck and rubbing it to try to rid it of the crick, she had looked at the message.

_Hey! Thanks for texting. Would you be up to talking soon? I think we should._

She had debated with herself for an hour before replying, _Sure._

So he had called her on his lunch break and asked to take her out to dinner. She had agreed without much hesitation. The prospect of real food was, to her embarrassment, somewhat tantalizing. She had been feeding herself canned fruit and pasta for the past few days, and she felt sick every time she thought of it.

As the time approached for Raoul to pick her up, she began to feel increasingly nervous. They hadn't spoken since Christmas morning. What would he say to her? Would this be his…_official _break-up with her? No matter what she had thought about him, the prospect of Raoul leaving her life was somewhat heartbreaking. She had depended on him so much—before her father was taken and after more than ever. He was the stability in her life, the rock that she could cling to. Even if she didn't understand why he put up with her, the fact was that he _did_, and she needed him.

However, she vowed that she would try to hold onto what scraps of dignity and pride she had left. She would refrain from bursting into tears at the restaurant and begging him to take her back. Raoul would surely be disgusted if she resorted to such behavior…even though she had done it before. She always asked for more chances with him.

She wanted to look pretty for him, and so she spent a long time on her hair and makeup, looking it over critically in the small, grimy mirror in the bathroom. She remembered the last time she had done something like this—the night her father was taken, and she felt her breath catch in her throat for a minute or two. She leaned her hands against the sides of the sink and breathed deeply for a few long moments. Then she collected herself. As she was spraying down a few unruly curls, she heard a knock on the door, and she bounded from the bathroom, her stomach jumping up and down in anxiety.

He looked handsome, as always, and he smiled at her. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

"Hey, Christine," he said, his voice sounding a little awkward, as if unsure of what else to say. "You…ready to go?"

She nodded. "Just let me grab my shoes and purse."

His BMW held the usual faint smell of leather and car air freshener, and she looked out of the window at the city, thinking of how many times she had done this, how many comfortable silences they had sat in. She wanted to reach over and have him hold her hand in his strong, warm one, but she kept her one hand in her lap and another pulling at some of her hair. An old pop song was playing softly on the radio, and she knew all the words by heart. It had been popular when she had been in high school. She must have heard it a million times. If the situation had not been so…somber, she might have sung along to it as a joke. Raoul would have laughed, and maybe he would have risked a quick kiss.

They went to one of their familiar restaurants and were seated promptly. Christine sat and played with her glass of water, staring at the white tablecloth, feeling childish and vulnerable.

"You're wearing the earrings I gave you," Raoul suddenly said, gesturing to her ears. "They look good on you." She touched them and blushed.

"Thank you. They're pretty."

There was further silence, and she wasn't sure that she could stand waiting until their meal came. She wanted him to simply get it out and done with, to stop torturing her like this.

"How have you been?" he then asked softly, and she risked a glance at him. He appeared to be concerned, as if he still cared about her feelings.

"Fine," she replied. "Just…trying not to miss him too much, I guess." The confession came out suddenly and unplanned. It was something of a relief to say it, though. She had missed warm, comforting words, and when he replied with sympathy and assurances, she felt infinitesimally better.

When their courses arrived, she knew that it would begin as soon as the waiter , she thought that at least she got a good, hot meal out of the night. Like Christmas Eve, she began to think that it would probably be better if she simply spoke up. It would save time and probably some hurt. If he knew that she knew, it would make it a whole lot less awkward for him.

"I just wanted to say I understand," she blurted—at the same exact time he said, "I'm so sorry about Christmas, Christine."

They paused, and Raoul suddenly looked confused. "What?" he said. "What do you mean, you 'understand?'"

She resisted fidgeting in her chair, and she ate a forkful of salad to stall for time. Then she said quietly, "I just…I understand, Raoul. Thanks for having the decency to tell me to my face instead of just a text or a phone call. It really does mean a lot to me, actually."

"Wait—now _I _don't understand," he said, his right eyebrow quirking up, as it always did when he was confused. "Tell you what 'to your face?' Wait—Christine. Do you…do you think that I'm here to break up with you?"

Her grip on her fork clenched a little, and her stomach jerked slightly. "You aren't?" she said—somewhat hopefully. She was disappointed in herself that her emotions were reacting strongly to this possibility when she had tried so hard to control them. Her breath was somewhat short and her heart pounded heavily.

"Of course not!" Raoul exclaimed, slightly too loudly. A few people at other tables looked at them in annoyance, and Raoul had the decency to look apologetic. Then he reached across and put a hand over hers. "I mean, I don't want to. Not at all. I just don't know what happened over Christmas. My mom isn't the easiest person in the world to handle, and I get how you had a hard time with her. I really wanted to spend Christmas with you, I swear, but she had planned the trip like six months in advance. Please, Christine. I'm really sorry."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, and she felt her heart beating slow into a gentle, almost comfortable pattern again. It was…wonderful. Apparently Raoul didn't know she had heard what his mother had said to him on Christmas Eve, but the point was that he was sorry that his mother had been there and ruined things. He was sorry. He still wanted her.

Suddenly the restaurant seemed less gloomy and threatening, and the food on her plate looked incredibly appetizing. Her stomach growled in appreciation at the smell.

"So are we good?" Raoul asked. "I promise I'll make it up to you however I can."

"No, it's fine," she said. "We're good."

The tension that she hadn't noticed before instantly left his face and shoulders, and he smiled widely at her. Their talk slowly became more comfortable, the conversation beginning to flow with more ease as the night went on. Afterward, he persuaded her to watch a movie with him in his apartment, and though she had some misgivings, she nevertheless went with him.

It was a little uncomfortable being there, remembering what had happened the last time she was, but Raoul was sweet and did his best to make her feel welcome again. When they sat on the sofa to watch _West Side Story _(Raoul had insisted on watching it, even though she knew he didn't want to), she carefully and hesitantly leaned her head against his shoulder. When his arm came around her and pulled her closer, she let a small smile linger on her lips. The day had turned out nicely after all.

* * *

Yawning, Christine pulled open the heavy theater door and went inside, trying not to be too nervous about the upcoming lesson. The musty, old smell of the theater hit her again, and she coughed a little in the stale air as she went down the aisle and climbed up onto the stage. The Phantom was there, and, as usual, there was the rush of anxiety and fear that chilled her as she looked at him. To her surprise, he had shed his suit coat. It lay a few feet away from the piano, looking rumpled and dusty. The white Oxford he was wearing only emphasized his gaunt frame. She tried not to stare at the sharp ridges in his shoulder and the bony shoulder blades that poked through the material of the shirt. She saw that the cuffs of his shirt were a dark grayish color, and as she looked and watched him scribble on some music paper, she realized that they must be smudged with ink. He was left-handed.

"Hello," she said, keeping a tremor out of her voice.

He ignored her for a few moments, and then he set his music aside and pressed out a chord.

"Posture," he said shortly, and she pulled off her jacket, went over to the small bend in the piano, and stood as best she could remember. He looked her over critically.

"Your feet are too far apart," he said. "And don't lock your knees!"

She corrected herself instantly. When he started playing some exercises for her to catch on to, she felt that that was his silent approval for her posture. It made her feel a little better.

The lesson began. The Phantom listened to her warm-up with a few scales, and then he would stop and correct her breathing and posture some more.

"Did you even listen to me yesterday?" he snapped once.

Christine blushed a little. "Of course I did," she said timidly. "I'm sorry. It's just a lot to remember."

"You need not consciously remember it," he replied. "You must have it become engrained into your being. Soon you will need to do everything naturally. There is still much for you to learn."

She nodded, looked over her posture once again, and tried a few more exercises. He kept the scales in the middle of her range, nowhere near stretching her voice, and though she felt a little disappointed, she said nothing. He would undoubtedly become angry if she tried to question him. And if he grew angry, that might…lead to other things. He…_killed _people, after all.

The thought caused her throat to tighten, and she squeaked on a note suddenly. The Phantom stopped, glared, and then tried it again.

As the lesson continued, she allowed herself to momentarily forget about the Phantom's…job. She let herself sing, and she listened to the piano being played.

After many more exercises, the Phantom stopped, and again he began speaking to her about breath support and posture. She listened, demonstrating for him when he demanded it, trying to retain all of the things he was telling her.

As he spoke, she felt a yawn well up, and she hid it behind her hand, closing her eyes for a moment.

The Phantom stopped speaking abruptly, and she could see that his eyes were narrowed in anger.

"Excuse _me_," he said, his voice cold and harsh. "Am I boring you?"

"Oh—no!" Christine tried not to blush or quiver. "I'm just tired. I'm sorry."

"Tired?" he replied instantly. "Why should you be tired? You have no excuse not to get adequate sleep."

"I was out with my boyfriend last night," Christine said, trying to explain before he exploded into anger. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to stay out so—"

"_What?_" the Phantom interrupted her loudly. "What?" His hand was clenched into a fist, and he stood. The bench scraped loudly on the stage.

Christine cowered, taking several hasty steps back, putting as much space and as much piano as she could between them. He looked like he was ready to attack her. She could still remember how badly her elbow had hurt for days afterward, how her back had smarted with every movement, how the cuts in her mouth had made her taste blood until they healed over. He was dangerous and violent.

"I'm sorry!" she whispered frantically. "I'm so sorry! It won't happen again!"

"You promised that you would devote yourself _completely _to the music. _Completely_. You cannot do that if you are out gallivanting with men! Stupid girl! Must I explain every little thing to you? I have half a mind to walk out of here and cease my search for your father altogether!"

"_No!_" Christine nearly fell to the stage. "No, please! Please, don't! I'm so sorry! I didn't think it was a big deal. I promise—I swear that I won't be out late anymore! I _am _devoted—completely!"

He looked at her coldly. "No, you aren't," he said. "Not yet."

There was a long pause, and Christine was still prepared to turn and run if he made a move toward her. He stared at her in a way that made her uncomfortable and embarrassed, and she dropped her gaze to the scuffed stage. Briefly, she wondered what had happened on that stage last night. Then she regretted wondering, because she had a pretty good idea of what had happened.

"Please," she then tried again after more silence. "Please, I promise that Raoul won't distract me."

She was terrified that he would demand that she end her relationship with Raoul. Just after they had made up! Just after she had felt somewhat secure again!

But the Phantom merely sat back down onto the stool and played a quick succession of minor chords, all the way up and down the keyboard. Then he stopped and said,

"Very well. At the first sign of disobedience because of your…_relationship _with this young man, I will consider our arrangement forfeit. You would not be wise to break an agreement with me."

Christine felt herself pale slightly, and she nodded wordlessly.

She didn't even want to think about what that meant.


	12. Chapter 12

Much to her frustration, she found that Raoul wasn't quite as understanding as she would have liked. One thing toppled down after another, and it left Raoul confused and a little angry; she was feeling awful for making him feel that way.

"I still don't get it," Raoul said, stabbing at his potato. They had opted for a night in, so Raoul was at perfect liberty to speak loudly and be upset with her. "Let me get this all straight. So you're…taking voice lessons."

Christine nodded, nervously playing with the edge of the tablecloth that was resting on her lap.

"For free."

"Yeah," she said uneasily.

"And this guy is supposedly a really good teacher, but I've never heard of him."

She nodded again.

"And he told you that you can't be out late anymore…because it'll make you tired."

"Yes," she said, taking a few bites of the steamed vegetables.

"What constitutes as 'late?'" he asked.

"Um…" She didn't want to push the issue. The Phantom had been so angry. She knew that if she tried to smudge any lines with him, he would…make her regret it. "Anytime after ten."

Raoul's right eyebrow shot up. "Christine, this…sounds fishy to me. What does this guy do? I mean—what's his _name? _Why is he teaching you for free if he's such a great teacher? And where does he teach you? You gotta understand that I don't really like what I'm hearing."

"Raoul," she said, trying to be soothing. She reached over and put her hand on his forearm. "It's okay. Really. I was a little hesitant at first, too. I mean…I thought that he was crazy. But he heard me singing in the park with my dad once, and he liked my voice. He says that I have a lot of potential. It's nothing but singing, I promise. He teaches me in a theater downtown in the middle of the day. He's even arranged an audition for me in a few months! You know that I've always wanted to sing. This could be my only chance to try. And if it doesn't work out, then…Well, at least I tried."

He sighed a little through his nose and put his elbow on the table, leaning his chin into his palm. He looked at her closely for a while. She met his gaze, knowing that her face was beginning to turn red. She never reacted well under intense scrutiny, and she was not the best liar.

"All right," he finally said suddenly, putting his hands in the air in surrender. "All right. If you want to take lessons, that's fine. It's not my place to boss you around. I just want you to know that I'm still not one hundred percent okay with this."

"You will be," she said, relief flooding through her. "Everything's fine. You don't need to worry. They're just voice lessons."

"I really hate the thought of your having to go so early," he said. "I mean, sometimes I don't get off work until late—and then you're here, and now you'll have to go so soon. When am I ever going to see you?"

"You'll see me plenty," she said, standing to clear the dinner dishes. "We'll make time. Don't worry."

She leaned down to kiss him, and he smiled a little when she pulled away. There was no way on earth she could tell Raoul that she was taking voice lessons from the _Phantom_. Raoul didn't even believe the Phantom existed. And if she told him, then her lies would tumble down all around her. Still, she felt guilty for adding another lie to the thick layer between them. She had never wanted to lie to him like this, but...he didn't understand. Raoul seemed to think that Gustave was dead. Christine could not believe that. She would not believe that. And so she would continue doing what she had to do until he was returned to her.

As she was in the kitchen cleaning up, he said, "You're not going to have a lesson on New Years, are you?"

Christine thought a little. "It's on a Sunday this year, isn't it? I don't have lessons on Sundays. So…no." (Christine had begged the Phantom to give her Sundays off. She needed the time to go to church. He had complied, stating that it would also be a chance for her to rest her voice. He had forbidden her to sing in church.)

"Great!" Raoul said. "My friend is having a New Year's Eve party. Come with me!" Christine hesitated, and Raoul saw. He continued, "You owe me, anyway, for not telling me about your lessons sooner. C'mon, Christine. You'll have all of Sunday to catch up on whatever sleep you need. I really want you to come with me. It will be way fun. You need a night out and away from your apartment—and mine."

His wheedling made her feel guilty, and she stared at the dishes in the sink.

"All right," she said. "I'll go."

"Great!" he exclaimed again. "It'll be fun, I promise. Nothing like that awful work party I made you go to—only friends are invited."

"Heh. Yeah." She finished cleaning up, looked at the time, and announced that she would need to head out if she was to make it to her apartment before ten.

"But you just got here," Raoul said, frowning a little. "Stay a little longer, and I'll drive you home."

She protested, and Raoul let out a long sigh and then rumpled his hair in apparent frustration.

"Can I talk to you about something?" he said. "I wanted to wait a few days, but I guess now is as good as ever."

Christine's stomach leapt a little in anxiety, and she nodded before going over to sit by him, pulling her legs up to her chest and putting her chin on her knees, watching him closely. What was he going to say to her? That she wasn't putting in as much of an effort as he was? She knew it was true…He was doing all the work to make the relationship stable. She simply stood there and allowed him to solve all of their problems.

Raoul rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands for a moment before looking back at her. He looked a little tired, and he had stubble around his cheeks and chin. Somehow…he was still incredibly handsome. Christine often wondered why he chose a business career. She legitimately believed that he would have been very successful as some type of model.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," he then said, his voice soft. "It just doesn't make any sense to me why you're still keeping your apartment."

"Because it's my apartment," she responded instantly, stupidly. "It's mine. I need it."

"But for what?" he said. "It's just a burden to you, Christine. You have to pay all of your bills by yourself now. You're alone in that dangerous complex. You're all the way across town from me. I just…Well, I think it would make more sense if you lived here. With me. Permanently."

She suddenly felt trapped, cornered. It would hurt his feelings badly if she rejected him outright.

"I need that apartment!" she said, perhaps a little too loudly. "When my dad comes home, we'll need a place to live!"

He sighed a little and scooted closer to her, putting his warm hands on her arms and speaking slowly and quietly, as if she was a frantic little girl, "I know, Christine. I understand. But if—when he's found, he can come stay here with us until we find him a better apartment to move into. Doesn't that sound a lot better? It just makes more sense in every way. And this way, we can see each other more often. You don't have to travel back and forth on those buses." He looked at her closely, his blue eyes clear and beautiful. When she didn't respond and instead put her face in her knees, he sighed again, and she felt him kiss her curls. "Just think about, okay? The offer is open as long as you want it to be."

She thought about it afterward. Raoul's argument made perfect sense. It really would be better for her in every way to move in with him. Still…that was the inherent problem. She would be _moving in _with her boyfriend. Christine felt uneasy at the thought. She was only twenty, after all. And if she moved in with Raoul…would he want her to sleep in his bed? She had hated doing so before. She knew what he wanted, and it made her feel guilty that he was holding back out of respect for her wishes—yet she knew that she shouldn't feel that way, but she did. What was he waiting for, exactly? Why didn't he just break up with her if he knew that she was waiting until marriage? Did he want that…marriage? The idea made her feel a little funny.

Christine wished that her father was with her. He would help her sort through it all. Her heart was aching, missing him more fiercely every day. There was a constant, dull feel in the pit of her stomach. Still, the Phantom had promised to find him. He had only been looking around three days. Gustave must have been extremely well-hidden.

And when he was found, their lives would be perfect. Christine would audition at the Opera House under the Phantom's direction. She would earn enough money to sustain herself and her father, and they would be completely happy. There would be no more money worries, nothing to trouble them. Gustave could play his violin for pleasure whenever he wanted. He could come to watch her perform on the stage of the Opera House, and he would bring her bouquets and kiss her forehead and tell her how magnificent she was. She wouldn't have to depend on Raoul anymore. Their relationship would be equal, and she would be able to put in the effort he asked her for because she wouldn't be so worried about bills and her father. It all sounded so perfect and wonderful.

On New Year's Eve, Raoul picked her up and drove downtown to a stylish apartment complex. Christine was already feeling a little tired, especially as she had had a grueling lesson that day.

The Phantom had yelled at her a few times, claiming that she wasn't even trying and that she was wasting his time. He threatened her and told her that she had better make an effort. Christine had cried, controlling her tears as best she could. Then they had stood in silence until she stopped weeping. She was too afraid to ask about Gustave, and when she was dismissed she had literally run out of the theater and into the cold, clear day, trying not to cry anymore.

Thankfully, she had managed to control herself by the time Raoul had picked her up, and now she simply felt tired.

The streets were crowded with cars—perhaps people trying to get to parties, just like they were. A few groups of people were walking down the streets, and Christine leaned her forehead against the window and watched them, wondering what the Phantom was doing right now. Maybe…out killing someone…

She swallowed harshly and quickly looked to Raoul, reaching for him. He held her hand without question, and she was comforted a little. He would protect her. He would care for her. He would.

An uneasiness had settled somewhere in her stomach, and she wondered if it was because of her sleepiness. The last thing she wanted to do was be around people she didn't know. If it had been up to her, she and Raoul would have stayed in for a quiet night. But he wasn't really that type of person. Raoul was sociable and friendly, and he had friends outside of his relationship with her. Sometimes she felt guilty for taking up all of his time. She couldn't remember the last time he had told her he was going out with some of his friends.

Raoul parked the car and led her up a few flights of stairs. The apartment complex smelled like new paint and fresh carpet, and it almost gave her a headache. They stopped at apartment 3A, and they were let in by a pretty girl after Raoul had knocked.

There was a blast of noise—music and laughter, and Christine instantly moved closer to Raoul, holding his hand tightly as they entered into the spacious living area. Dozens of people were about, some talking, some dancing, some helping themselves to the food laid out. Christine automatically felt out of place. She didn't know anyone well except Raoul. She recognized a few of his friends from appearance, but she couldn't recall their names or anything else about them.

A man ran up to them and instantly caught Raoul up in a brotherly embrace, exclaiming that he hadn't seen Raoul around enough and all sorts of other things that made Christine feel even more awkward and guilty.

"Go ahead and enjoy the party—free food and booze, can't beat that!" the man said, grinning down at Christine. Like a child, she wanted to hide behind Raoul and not have to speak to anyone.

"We will," Raoul said, putting his arm around her waist and leading her farther into the chaos. Several people hailed Raoul with greetings, and he was so friendly and charismatic that Christine felt incredibly socially-inept. She was feeling so out of place that she began thinking in Swedish, something she never did around English-speakers. She looked around blankly, noting a couple in the corner necking heavily, and she blushed and averted her gaze. Raoul took her arm and shook her a little.

"_Vad säger du?_" she said distractedly, unthinkingly, accidentally slipping back into her mother tongue. He looked at her perplexedly, and she fumbled around for English. "Oh—oh. Sorry, Raoul. I mean, what did you say?"

"I said, did you want something to drink?"

"Okay," she replied vacantly, wanting to get away from the people who were all staring at her curiously, like she was some type of strange exhibit. She probably was to them—some stupid little Swedish girl in old clothes, twisting a curl around her finger tightly. She pulled her hand away and fisted it at her side, resisting the urge to play with her hair. The uneasiness had not left the pit of her stomach, and she wished that she was at her apartment in her comfortable, old pajamas, reading a book or listening to the radio—with her father.

Raoul handed her a can of soda, and she took it with a small nod of thanks.

"Thanks again for coming with me, Christine," Raoul said with an affectionate smile. "I know this really isn't your thing, and it means a lot to me that you're here."

"No problem," she replied, hoping that the soda would soothe the churning in her stomach. Raoul took her free hand and pulled her back over to the couch. She sat next to him, avoiding eye contact with the people surrounding them, concentrating intently on her soda so that she wouldn't have to talk to anyone. She half-listened to Raoul happily argue with someone about a sports team. A group of girls were gathered together, speaking shrilly and laughing loudly. She saw one or two of them glance over at her a few times, and she hastily looked down at her lap.

As the night progressed, the uneasiness only grew, and she didn't understand why. She had never felt this way before—she couldn't describe the sensation, even to herself. It was as if it was a warning, an expectation, a paranoia…everything all in one strange and unpleasant sensation. The heat and noise of the party only made it feel worse.

Around eleven, some people began trying to persuade Raoul to join in a drinking game, and he refused them for a while, but eventually their pestering grew so irritating that Christine pushed him encouragingly.

"Go ahead," she said.

He looked at her. "You sure?" he said. "I mean…you can't drink. Are you sure you'll be okay by yourself for a little bit?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm not a little kid. Go ahead."

His face broke out into a grin, and he kissed her before standing and joining his hollering, whooping friends. They pulled him off to the other side of the room and handed him some beer. Christine sat by herself on the couch, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed. She traced the tin top of her empty soda can, wondering if she would be brave enough to get up and grab another. Then she realized that she wouldn't be, and she tried to settle herself in for another few hours of discomfort. Raoul was not there to hide behind anymore.

After several minutes alone, a few girls approached her and surrounded her. She felt cornered once again. Her lips twitched, and she tried to smile at them. They were all very pretty and stylish, and she was very aware of her generic jeans and shirt.

"You're Christine, right?" one of the girls asked her. The girl had beautiful blonde hair, trimmed and styled perfectly.

"Yeah," Christine said. "Hi." Then she felt stupid.

"Cool. It's so awesome that you're dating Raoul," the blonde girl said, looking around to the other girls, who all nodded in agreement. "He's a really great guy."

"I know," Christine agreed.

"How's it going with him? Still good?"

"It's fine," she said, trying to be vague. She didn't really want to talk about her relationship with Raoul to complete strangers.

"You really hit the jackpot, sweetie," the blonde girl continued. "I mean he's gorgeous and rich _and _smart. They don't make them like that anymore. How are you going to peg him?"

"What?" Christine said, confused.

"I mean how are you planning to keep him? _I _could only keep him interested for like two months."

Christine felt a bunch of air seemingly disappear from her lungs, and she stared at the beautiful blonde girl, feeling horror creep up into her brain.

"You dated Raoul?" she croaked.

The blonde girl laughed a little and flipped her shining hair. "Of course, sweetie. He's a catch. Every girl in this room would die to go out with him."

"Oh." Christine didn't doubt that—of course Raoul was a great guy, and it was natural that other women would be interested in him. She tried not to panic immediately, but thoughts were swarming, clogging up her brain. It was okay that Raoul had dated people before her—that was fine. He was several years older than she was, and so it was only natural that he would have had several previous girlfriends. But why would Raoul want to stay in a relationship with her at all? They had been dating for three whole months now, yet he had dated the pretty blonde girl for only two months. Christine felt a little choked, and she put a hand on her throat. How would she keep Raoul interested when the most she would allow him were a few heated kisses? She never allowed his hands to wander, never allowed him to take off any clothing…And Christine was pretty sure that the blonde girl had let Raoul do a _lot _more than just kiss her.

"Hey!" a voice exclaimed. Christine looked up to see Raoul above her, smiling brilliantly, his perfect teeth gleaming, his hair disheveled. "Having fun?" He looked around and exclaimed in surprise when he spotted the blonde girl.

"Emily!" he said. "I didn't know you were going to be here! I thought you were in London."

"Changed my mind at the last minute," the blonde girl—Emily—said, getting to her feet and smiling. She hugged Raoul tightly and pressed a wet, lipstick-smeared kiss to his cheek. "How are you doing? I was just talking to Christine. She's so cute!"

Raoul laughed. "Thanks, Em." He looked to Christine and held out his hand. "I need a favor, Christine, if that's okay."

"Sure," she said, accepting his hand and standing. "What is it?"

"I just need a kiss really quick," he said. "It's part of the game." He glanced over his shoulder, and the guys watching all whooped and whistled at him.

She let him kiss her, and he smelled like alcohol and sweat. She resisted making a face. Then he laughed, kissed her again, and said, "I'm going to come grab you for midnight, okay? Don't disappear on me!"

"Ha," she replied weakly, and he went back over to his group, all of whom were cheering and clapping him on the back. The blonde girl smiled and sat back down. Christine wanted to run and hide in a quiet, peaceful place…like her apartment. Still, she would feel too guilty if she left the party without telling Raoul. He would grow worried and upset, and they had just mended their previous argument about that very problem.

Midnight drew closer, and Christine spent that while listening to all the girls around her gossip. She didn't know who they were talking about—_what _they were talking about, really, but occasionally someone asked her about Raoul, and she answered as best she could.

The feeling in her stomach was also increasing, nearly driving her to distraction. She could not fight away the feeling—there was something…_something_…Something she needed to understand. As the party grew louder and the alcohol began to flow a little more freely, Christine tried to distance herself from it all. She wanted to get out and find some peace so she could just think.

Fifteen minutes to midnight, she suddenly jumped up from the couch. It came to her, in a horrid realization. She didn't know how she knew it—but she did. She _knew _it. There was something calling to her, something stronger than anything before. The revelation was horrid and wonderful, startling and relieving, and she nearly cried.

"What's wrong?" the blonde girl asked, frowning a little.

"Hospital," Christine murmured distractedly.

"What?"

"I need to go to the hospital," Christine repeated clearly. She walked away quickly, ignoring their questions as to whether she felt all right, whether she needed help or an ambulance. She grabbed her coat and quickly, quietly, slipped out of the apartment. She knew it. With each step she took, the sensation was getting stronger and stronger. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind, and she began to run.

Her father had been found.


	13. Chapter 13

She was glad that she had taken some money with her, and she ran to the nearest bus stop, her chest heaving. She knew it—it beat through her with a resounding firmness. She knew.

As she rode the empty bus, she stared out of the darkened window and into the empty streets. No one was out—no one cared that her father had been found. No one was celebrating that Gustave Daae had come back to her. And she didn't care. She didn't care that no one else cared. Gustave was _her Pappa_. He would always mean everything to her, and that was enough. As long as she cared, it mattered.

The bus dropped her off two blocks away from the hospital, and she ran the entire way, feeling a stitch tearing at her side. Her breath ripped in and out of her lungs in short, panicked bursts, and she felt herself begin to perspire under her coat. The cold wind whipped into her, and the sidewalk was firm and unyielding under her pounding feet. She could be seeing her father in five minutes…The thought spurred her on.

Finally, she pushed through the heavy hospital doors and into the front waiting room, gasping in for air. She looked around wildly, as if expecting to see Gustave standing right in front of her.

"Miss?"

Christine whirled around and saw a confused and concerned-looking nurse standing behind the front desk. "Miss, are you okay?"

Christine hurried up to her. "My father's here," she panted, clutching at her aching, racing heart. "Please, he's here. I need to see him!"

"Okay, calm down now," the nurse said, sitting down and pulling a file toward her. "Visiting hours are over—he's probably resting. Maybe if you come back tomorrow…"

"No!" Christine cried loudly. "_No! _He's been missing for weeks! He's here! I know he's here! I need to see him! Right now! Let me see him!"

The nurse looked baffled, and she cleared her throat a little. "Um…okay. What's his name?"

"Gustave Daae," Christine chanted hurriedly. "Please, tell me what room he's in."

Christine watched anxiously as the nurse ran her finger down a complicated-looking chart. The nurse looked back up at her.

"I'm sorry, Miss. No one by that name is registered here."

It felt as if her heart literally dropped in her chest. She stared at the nurse. "No, he's here!" she insisted shrilly. "I know he's here! He just got here—he's been missing!"

The nurse stood and held out her hands in a placating manner. "All right, Miss. Let me check for you." She picked up a phone, dialed a number, and turned around, murmuring things into the phone that Christine couldn't quite make out. After a brief conversation, the nurse turned back, put the phone down, and said,

"Follow me, please."

Christine obeyed, her arms wrapped around herself. She felt her phone buzz angrily in her pocket, and she ignored it, knowing it was Raoul. He wanted to know where she was—but she couldn't talk to him just yet. _Let him get drunk and enjoy his New Years_, she thought somewhat coldly. Then she felt guilty. It wasn't as if it was Raoul's fault. Still, she knew that if she had tried to talk to him about the hospital, he probably never would have believed her.

They walked through long hallways, past more desks and offices, past dozens of rooms, and Christine looked around, expecting to catch sight of her father any moment. They went through wide double doors and into another waiting area, which was full of several dozen people, and Christine felt her throat catch. It was the emergency room, and many of the people looked very badly hurt. She looked away quickly, not wanting to see something that would make her sick.

The nurse went and spoke to the other nurses at the desk. They all looked back at Christine for a few moments, and then one of them nodded and walked over to her.

"Please come with me."

Again, Christine followed the new nurse, going out of the waiting room and down into a narrower hallway. The nurse stopped and looked at Christine, holding a clipboard.

"You said your father's name is Gustave Day-ee," the nurse said.

"Daae," Christine corrected. "And yes. Please, where is he?"

The nurse scribbled something down onto her clipboard. Then she looked back up and said softly, "Miss, a man was brought in thirty minutes ago without any identification whatsoever. He's being treated right now—he's in pretty bad shape—and if you could give us some identification, we might be able to see if he's your father…"

Christine shakily dug out her small wallet and pulled out an I.D. card, shoving it out for the nurse to examine. She was feeling like she might pass out.

"What do you mean, he's in pretty bad shape?" Christine asked hoarsely. "What—what's happened to him? What's wrong with him?"

The nurse shook her head. "As soon as he's identified, we'll be at liberty to tell you. Now if you could just wait right in here for a little while…"

Christine gratefully sat down in one of the indicated chairs, knowing that her knees might have given way had she stood up for much longer. She leaned back and pressed her hands over her face, trying not to let her mind run. _Pretty bad shape…pretty bad shape…bad shape…_

Her poor _Pappa! _What was wrong with him? If they would just let her _look_ at him, she would show them the resemblance. She had his hair and cheekbones and ears…

Her phone buzzed again, and she pulled it out and turned it off before pushing it back into her pocket. She didn't want to talk to Raoul right now—she didn't want him to berate her for leaving the party without telling him, for worrying him and scaring him. This was too much already without feeling guilty about leaving Raoul without a word.

She sat in the hard plastic chair for what felt like hours. Some nearby machines beeped occasionally, and sometimes nurses hurried past, but she was left alone. She tapped her feet and twirled her hair and drummed her fingers, staring at the cheap plastic clock nailed to the opposite wall. It ticked in an infuriating rhythm. It was after one in the morning. _Happy New Year_.

This meant that the Phantom had carried through his part of the bargain. Her father had been found and returned to her. The Phantom had done as he had said, but she realized, with a sickening jolt, that she still had nearly three months with him to train for her audition. And still…he had said that he would train her until he deemed her responsible enough. What did that even mean? She groaned and pressed her fingertips into her eyes. She was exhausted in every way, but her mind would not stop racing.

At two in the morning, a nurse came to her, and Christine followed the nurse through more hallways. They stopped outside of a closed set of double doors, and the nurse said softly,

"The man is just through here. He's stable right now, but he's still very weak, and he's been put under some sedatives right now, so he's not conscious. We're just going to ask you to not get overexcited, okay?"

Christine nodded quickly, her lips pressed together, and the nurse led the way through. As soon as she saw the hospital bed, Christine began to cry. It was her father. Her heart was pounding, threatening to burst out of her chest, and she pressed her hands over her mouth and wept.

The nurse stood by her and put a hand on her shoulder. "If you could give us some identification of his, something to help us register him, we'd really appreciate it. And we'll need your insurance information as well, if you have it."

Christine nodded distractedly, only half-listening. She wanted to reach out and touch the gaunt man before her, but she was afraid that she would break him.

"We're going to move him to a patient room now," the nurse said. "So if you'll come with me, we can get some information from you…"

For the next twenty minutes, Christine answered questions, wrote things down, signed her name a couple of times, all while crying. She was trying not to think too much right now—she tried to force herself to only realize what a joyous occasion it was. Her father was returned to her, and everything was right in the world at this point.

Then she was allowed to go into the patient room her father was kept in. The screen was drawn across the middle of the room, meaning someone was on the other side. The nurses had given her a cup of water, and she set it down on the small table before sitting in one of the large chairs by his bed. She curled up and stared at him, wiping away her tears with her fingers.

He was so painfully thin…She could see it, even under the hospital gown they had put him in. His hands were resting by his side, and his fingers looked brittle. His fingernails were broken and split, and she wanted to take his hands and kiss away all the pain. All of the skin that was exposed was covered in small scratches and numerous purple bruises. His hair had been shaved off, and she saw a bandage around the back of his head. There were several others on his neck and face, and she wanted to reach out and touch any part of him. But there was the chance that it would wake him, and she knew that he needed rest. His chest rose in and out weakly, shallowly, and there were numerous tubes and IVs stuck into his arms. He had an oxygen tube as well. The machines around him hummed and beeped softly.

The night passed, and Christine dozed a few times, always jerking awake when her head fell. The chair was uncomfortable, and the fabric was faded and nearly threadbare. She continued to watch Gustave, praying that he would wake. She had stopped crying, but her face was sticky and her nose was running. She used nearby tissues and cleaned herself up as best she could.

Sunlight eventually came into the room, creeping in through the plastic slats in the blinds, and the digital clock on the wall was counting away the time to her. She was beginning to grow very hungry, but she still couldn't leave—not with her father right beside her at last. Nurses came in and out every so often, checking numbers and figures on the machines, asking Christine soft, gentle questions, and writing things down on the clipboard that was hanging from the edge of Gustave's hospital bed. Once Christine had looked at it while no nurses were there, but she hadn't been able to understand a word.

Oftentimes the nurses disappeared behind the curtain, and she heard them speaking to the patient. It sounded like it was a man as well, and he spoke in a wheezy whisper. Christine wondered if he, too, was someone's father, hurt and confused. After the hours of debating, she at last reached out and put a shaking hand on Gustave's arm, careful not to press or move it at all. His skin felt dry and cold, and she would have been willing to spend her entire life nursing him back to health.

Around nine in the morning, there was a gentle knock on the open door, and she turned around to see Raoul standing there, looking tired and concerned. He was still wearing his clothes from the night before, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

"Hey, Christine," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "You okay?"

She nodded and looked back to her father. Raoul took the chair next to hers, looking at Gustave as well. He reached out and put a hand on hers.

"Emily told me that you said you needed to go to the hospital. I was so worried about you, I thought…and then you didn't answer your phone…But I couldn't believe it when the nurses said that your dad was here."

"I didn't mean to ruin your New Year's Eve," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"You're worried about _my _New Year's Eve?" he said, almost incredulously. "Christine…I couldn't care less about that. I just wish you had told me that you knew your dad was here. I would have taken you here in a second if you had—and…well, how _did_ you know?"

She shrugged a little, opting for complete honesty, because she couldn't imagine a good lie. "I just…knew. I just felt that he was here. I knew it. I knew it. Is that crazy?"

He smiled softly. "Maybe a little. But it's a good thing."

Christine threaded her fingers through Raoul's, watching as some of the sunlight spilled across Gustave's hospital bed. How _had _she known? It had been a feeling, and that was it. Was she crazy? Was she so connected with her father that she could sense his return? Or maybe God gave her that feeling, telling her that her _Pappa _was back at last. She muffled a slight yawn. Whatever it was, she was thankful.

They were silent for a long while. Gustave's breathing remained slow and weak, and he was very still. A nurse came in and smiled at the pair of them before beginning to go through the checking routine.

"Nurse," Raoul said. "Can you tell us exactly what's happening to Mr. Daae?"

"He's just deprived of a lot of things," the nurse said softly, adjusting one of the tubes. "Water, food, sleep…He has a few broken ribs and a broken foot, and he needed some stitches in some places. That's what I can tell you right now."

Christine was horrified. Just what had happened to her _Pappa? _Who had done this to him? Why would anyone hurt him? He was the kindest man in the world. He had never hurt anybody—he had no enemies in the world! People had taken him and then _hurt _him like this? Why?

Raoul reached over and put his arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her. The nurse finished her routine and left silently. Raoul got up from his chair and awkwardly pulled Christine into his arms. She buried her face in his chest, not wanting anyone with her but grateful that Raoul was trying.

After a few silent minutes, Raoul shifted a little and said quietly, "I'll go get you some clean clothes and something to eat, okay? I'll only be gone for a little bit, and then I'll come right back."

Christine nodded wordlessly, and Raoul left after hugging her tightly. She curled up in her chair once again. Gustave moved his head a little to the left, and her heart leapt, but he continued to sleep. He looked so strange without his dark, curly hair. He would probably laugh at himself when he woke up.

The thought cheered her up slightly, but then she grew melancholy almost immediately afterward. She dozed again a few more times, but Raoul came back soon after just like he had promised, and she thanked him tiredly for the food and clothes. They ate in silence, and then he left the room so she could change out of her old, rumpled clothes.

She finally fell asleep around five o' clock that evening, allowing herself to drop off on Raoul's shoulder, confident in his promises that he would wake her if Gustave woke. She slept shallowly but peacefully, dreaming absurd things that changed quickly. When she began to dream about the Phantom, her sleep grew restless, and she dreamed that he entered the hospital room and killed her father in front of her. She jerked herself awake with a little cry, snapping her eyes open to ensure that such a thing hadn't happened. When she looked around, she realized that it was the opposite.

Gustave was awake, looking tired, but he was smiling faintly at her. His lips were dry and cracked, and there was dark, clotted blood on his lower lip. However, she had never felt happier while looking at him.

"_Pappa!_" she whispered, and she leaned over and kissed him over and over, beginning to cry again. Gustave raised a shaking, weak hand to put on her curls, and when she pulled away, his smile was still on his thin lips.

"_Hej, ängel,_" he managed to rasp.

Christine took his hand and pressed it to her lips, trying not to heave on sobs. She felt unending relief and all-consuming joy fill her, and she never wanted to be parted from Gustave ever again.

A nurse entered then, exclaiming in delight and surprise when she saw that Gustave was awake, and she busied herself about, adjusting things on the machines and asking Gustave several quick questions. Gustave looked at her in confusion, and then he turned his gaze to Christine for help, who was only too willing to translate for him.

Then a doctor entered, and Raoul spoke to him quietly in the corner while Christine continued to hold Gustave's hand, smiling weakly at him and feeling occasional tears of happiness slip down her cheek.

"You should…not be crying," Gustave said in soft, tired Swedish. "My…_prinsessa _should…never cry."

"I'm just so happy I've found you," Christine whispered in reply. "_Pappa_…I've missed you more than you can imagine."

The doctor approached, and Raoul led Christine out of the room after quietly telling her that the doctor thought it would be best if she wasn't there for a few minutes.

"The doctor's just going to check a few of your dad's…more serious injuries," Raoul said to her consolingly. She bounced on her feet anxiously in the hallway, resisting the urge to peek inside the room. Then Raoul took her hand and said, "Do you want to sleep at my place tonight? It's a lot closer to the hospital than your apartment."

Christine shook her head instantly. "I'm staying here tonight."

He pressed her for a few more minutes, trying to get her to understand that it would be best overall if she slept in an actual bed and had sufficient food, but Christine would not budge this time. Raoul finally conceded to a defeat and rubbed the back of his neck.

"All right," he said. "Whatever you want, Christine. I need to go home soon, though. I have to go to work tomorrow—there's a meeting that I can't miss. Are you going to be okay here alone?"

"Of course I am," she said shortly.

"Okay. I'll be back tomorrow night as soon as I get off work. See you then." Instead of kissing her, he hugged her again as a farewell and left. When the doctor reemerged, he allowed Christine to hurry back inside. Gustave's eyelids were drooping with tiredness, and Christine reached out and held his hand tightly. She kissed his knuckles again.

"_Pappa_," she said in soft Swedish. "Things are going to get so much better. I promise."


	14. Chapter 14

Christine was a mix of emotions. She wasn't sure what to feel. As she pulled open the heavy door to the theater, she let herself pause a bit, and she took a deep breath. It was time for her lessons, and she knew that she needed to be at least a little collected. If she wasn't, then she knew that the Phantom would probably yell at her. He was scary when he yelled.

He was waiting for her, playing a sad waltz. She had never heard it before, but it was incredibly beautiful. His hands were jumping back and forth over the keyboard, but he pressed so softly and delicately when his fingers landed. It was like a gloomy, beautiful cloud hanging over the entire house. She stood by the stage and put her chin in her hands, closing her eyes and letting herself listen. The swells and sweeping runs in the melody gave her chills and set her heart racing, but the somber tones that always followed made her feel slightly melancholy again. The piano looked to be old and out-of-tune, but the Phantom was coaxing only pure, beautiful sound from the keys.

When he finished, she sighed in disappointment and appreciation. Then she opened her eyes and clapped for him. His gaze flashed down to her.

"What are you doing down there?" he said. "Get onto the stage."

Awkwardly, she pulled herself up and then took off her coat, trying not to blush at the ungraceful picture she must have been. She went over to the bend and cleared her throat a little. She knew that if she waited, she would lose her nerve, and the entire lesson would go by without one comment from her.

"Thank you so much," she blurted quickly.

His fingers paused, and he looked up at her. Under the dim stage lights, his eyes were somewhat visible behind his mask. They appeared to be a strange…golden color, bordering on yellow. She resisted grimacing, reminding herself that he was probably ill with some sort of disease.

She swallowed and continued. "Thank you _so, so _much. You don't know what this means to me." Her throat began clogging up, and the tears were coming. She sniffled a little. "My dad is my whole world. I just can't think you enough for bringing him back to me."

He watched her silently as she forcibly calmed herself. She wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her sweater, and she took several more deep breaths. Then she smiled embarrassedly.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to start crying. I was just so happy to see him again."

Encouraged by the fact that he wasn't yelling at her to shut up and sing, she folded her arms on top of the piano and leaned a little closer.

"So where was he?" she asked softly, suppressing a hiccough. "Where did you find him? Who took him?"

"That is none of your concern," the Phantom said, his voice short.

Christine bit her lip a little. "But it _is_ my concern. The police should know! Whoever took him needs to be arrested and put in jail!"

"No," he said firmly. "You will be grateful that your father has returned, and you will not pursue the matter."

A horrible thought came to her. She stood straight up and covered her mouth with her hand. "Were _you_…?" she whispered. "Are you…do you…know the men who took him? Are you working for them? Is that why you don't want them to be put in jail?"

She could see that he was becoming irritated. "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped coldly. "This matter is entirely too dangerous for you to involve yourself in."

"But please," she whined, and she knew she sounded very annoying. "Please, I need to know. I need to know at least _why _he was taken from me!"

The Phantom fisted his hand and swiftly brought it down onto the keyboard, creating a loud, unpleasant, jarring chord that made her jump. His gaze was cold and calculating.

"You really wish to know?" he said. "Well then! I shall have you know that your father borrowed money from a rather unforgiving drug lord. When he was unable to meet his payments, they grew rather upset."

Christine felt air disappear from her lungs. She took several steps backward, though she still held onto the piano for support.

"What are you talking about?" she managed to say. "What—you're lying! You're lying to me!"

"Am I?" he challenged, standing as well. "Just _think _for a moment, stupid girl. Your father takes your paychecks, yet he doesn't give you access to the bank account. His meager income playing for the theater orchestra would not give him enough to support both of you, so you are required to work as well. However, as soon as you become unemployed, he falls behind on his payments…And mere months after, he is taken—no doubt his reassurances had begun to lose their effect."

"Stop it!" Christine said loudly. "_Stop _it! He would never do that! My dad is a good, honest, hard-working man who would _never _even _talk _to—to people like that!"

"Do you want to know where I found him?" the Phantom sneered, gripping the edges of the piano. "I found him in a filthy basement—a basement owned by the same said drug lord! Do you think it to be simple happenstance that he was found there?"

Christine felt as if her heart was dropping into her stomach. She wanted to yell until her throat was sore, but she could find nothing to say. All she could do was pitifully whisper, "_No_." And she slumped onto the stage and cried, burying her face in her hands. What if it was all true? How could Gustave do this to them? How could he borrow money from a criminal? Why hadn't he borrowed money from their bank? Why hadn't he told her to go find another job? She could have helped him! Why didn't he go to the police?

But the Phantom was lying to her! He was a murderer, and he would just as easily lie to her! He didn't know Gustave like she did. Gustave would _never _put them in a position like that. He would never approach dangerous criminals for money!

When she looked up through tear-filled eyes, she saw that the Phantom was back at the piano, calmly writing on some staff paper. She hated him—hated his stupid logic and his awful, valid points about Gustave. He knew nothing! He was simply a heartless criminal who did not understand basic human emotions, like love and forgiveness. He did not know that Gustave would never do what he said he did.

"It is apparent you will not progress today," the Phantom then said, not even bothering to look at her. "You will compose yourself, and then you will return tomorrow, ready to sing." When she hesitated, he snapped, "Yes?" And she jumped a little and nodded quickly. Then she scrambled to her feet and fled from the theater, never wanting to return.

When she arrived back at the hospital, she headed straight for Gustave's room. He was still sleeping, but she did not have to wait long, for less than an hour after he arrived, he stirred, and his eyes opened. She felt her heart ache with love and sorrow and confusion, and she took his hand and held it to her cheek.

"_Pappa_," she said softly, kissing his palm. "It's me."

To her shock, the patient on the other side of the screen suddenly hollered, and a few nurses hurried in. One of them saw that Gustave was awake, and she pressed a button on the nearby machine. Less than a minute later, another nurse entered, and she smiled widely with crooked white teeth.

"Feeling better today, Mr. Day?" the nurse chirruped, picking up the clipboard and flipping through a few pages. Christine resisted the urge to correct the nurse's pronunciation, and she also tried to ignore the sounds coming from the other side of the curtain. It sounded like an emergency of some kind. A machine was beeping loudly and rapidly.

"Are you feeling better today, _Pappa?_" Christine translated for him. He looked at her and then the nurse, and he nodded slowly. It looked like it was a little painful for him.

The nurse checked the visible bandages, pushed a few things on the machine that was hooked up to the needle in his arm, and she scribbled a few things on his chart.

"When will he get better?" Christine then asked.

"It's hard to say," the nurse said. "He just needs to get his strength back up. He'll need lots of rest and nutrients, and he'll need time for his broken bones to set and heal. So you're looking at several months, at best, before he's completely okay again. Still! It must be nice to have him back, isn't it?" The nurse smiled again, put the clipboard away, and left the room.

"She says that you'll be okay in a few months," Christine said in Swedish. "I'm so glad, _Pappa_. I can't wait until you come home with me!"

Gustave smiled a little in response, saying hoarsely, "I missed you so much, Lotte."

As Christine watched him, she felt her heart suddenly start beating in her chest again, and it was frantic and insistent. It needed to know. How was she to ask him? How could she say that she wanted the truth, when she wasn't sure that she did? A large part of her wanted to remain his Little Lotte, to never know of the terrible things that happened. She wanted to return to the days of them living in their awful little apartment, him playing his violin and her working at the bookstore. But those days were over. She was here, training to sing for the opera company, and her father had been given back to her after weeks of panic and alarm.

"I want to talk about something." She held his large hand in her own small ones, pressing on the clammy flesh and memorizing the feel of his fingers.

"Anything, _prinsessa_."

"On…" She was already having trouble forming the sentences. "When you—when…_Pappa_. That…that night…why? Why?"

A look of worry passed over Gustave's eyes, and he shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed, grimacing and putting a hand on his chest, his broken ribs apparently hurting him.

"Christine, you should not worry so," he said softly. "Some people are…simply evil. You understand that, don't you, Lotte?I—" He suddenly choked and began coughing, almost violently, and Christine hurriedly pushed a nearby cup of water into his hands, helping him lift it to his mouth and drink thirstily. He gasped and heaved for a few moments, leaning back into the pillows with an exhausted and pained groan. Christine was nearly driven to tears by the sight. He had once been tall and strong, and now he looked weak, frail, and completely helpless.

"So—so you were taken from me for no reason?" Christine asked, smoothing the sheets of the bed in anxiety. "_Pappa? _What did they want from you?"

"It is not for you to hear," he said, keeping his eyes closed.

"I don't understand!" she cried. "Why? Why won't you tell me what happened?"

He reluctantly opened his eyes, and he looked at her. "You are too good to understand, _ängel._"

"I need to understand," she insisted. "I was…you have no idea how scared I was! I need to know who took you and why!"

"No!" he said loudly, and then he winced in pain. "No, Little Lotte. We'll forget that…this ever happened, yes? I'm with you now—and that's what really matters."

The nurses were leaving the room, and the patient on the other side of the curtain was silent. The machines were beeping regularly, and she could hear a distant radio, playing soft rock ballads. She wanted to get her father away from this awful place. He needed a place with _life_, not this overwhelming atmosphere of death and disease.

Christine didn't want to risk agitating him further, and so she let the looming question go for the time being. She quietly told him about what she had done in his absence: about her 'wonderful' Christmas with Raoul, and how he had been so supportive of her, and how everything had been fine while he was away from her.

"I just missed you so much," she ended, managing to smile a little.

He wheezed out a laugh or two and then said, "I am sure you were so busy with Raoul that you…hardly noticed my absence."

"_Pappa!_" she exclaimed. "That's an awful thing to say! I prayed for you every night—I went to Mass every Sunday and prayed for you. I missed you more than you can even imagine."

He smiled a little and closed his eyes again.

After it was dark, there was a knock on the door, and she turned to see Raoul in the doorway, smiling at her and holding up a brown paper bag in one hand and a small bag slung over his other shoulder.

"I brought you dinner," he said, entering and sitting down. "How's he doing?"

"He talked to me for a while, so that's good," Christine said, gratefully taking the bag from him. She opened it, and her stomach instantly growled at the smell. "Thank you. It smells great. I didn't even realize how hungry I am!" She pulled out the warm tin of pasta, pried open the lid, and began eating hungrily. Between bites, she asked him about work and such, and he answered positively. She wanted to ask him about the promotion that his mother had mentioned on Christmas Eve—but he had never told her about it, and he would want to know how she knew, and she would have to tell him that she was eavesdropping, and…She didn't ask.

As she finished up, she watched Gustave, and the worry began to creep back in. She wanted him to trust her, to tell her what had happened to him. But she was afraid that the answer would hurt her.

"Raoul," she said, looking over at him. "Can I ask you a…kind of a weird question?"

"Uh. Sure," he said. "What is it?"

"I was talking to my…voice teacher," Christine began, trying hard to phrase it right. "And I was telling him about my dad—about his…um, disappearance and stuff. He wanted to help out, so he asked me some details. Anyway, he said that he thought…Well, he thought that my dad had…borrowed money…from someone and—and he couldn't make his payments, and that's why he was taken." She chewed on her lip, watching Raoul's eyebrows rise in skepticism. She had asked him because he was intelligent. He knew a lot about business and finances. Maybe if she showed him some papers…or receipts…or something, he would be able to verify the accusation.

"Your _voice teacher _said that he thought that your dad had borrowed money he couldn't pay back?" Raoul said incredulously. When Christine nodded, he shook his head slightly and ran a hand over his blond hair. "Christine, that honestly sounds completely ridiculous to me. It's like something out of a bad movie. Things like that don't happen in real life, okay? I don't know what your teacher's deal is, but he's a little turned around on some things. The people who took your dad were probably just weird, twisted screw-ups. Don't listen to your teacher anymore about this. He's only getting you worked up. Okay?"

Christine hesitated, but then she nodded. "Okay."

* * *

The loud banging of chords echoed around the theater.

"No!" he said loudly. "No, _no! _You are not trying!"

Christine trembled, but she resisted taking a few steps away from him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Can I try again, maybe?"

The Phantom stood abruptly, sending the bench clattering to the stage, and he walked away several paces, putting his hands on top of his head in a gesture of frustration.

"What is the point?" he said, his back to her. "Why should I teach you if you are not willing to _try?_"

"I don't understand!" she confessed suddenly. She had been sleeping on the hospital chair for the past two nights now, and she was exhausted beyond tears. She was angry with herself and frustrated with her father, and she didn't seem to be able to cry at that moment. "I _am _trying! I'm doing everything you want me to do! I'm breathing and standing and singing on-key and keeping the rhythm and remembering the counts and remembering diction! I don't know what else you want me to do!"

"Do you think that the Opera House is looking for a lifeless little singing doll?" the Phantom said, spinning around the glare at her. "Do you think that they do not have them coming in in droves, singing gaudy renditions of the Jewel Song or _O Mio Babbino Caro? _Revolting! I am not teaching you to become one of them! You have the potential to become more valuable than the entire Opera House, yet you are squandering it by screeching out flat, lifeless notes."

"What am I doing wrong?" she demanded, somewhat hysterically. "Tell me what to do!"

"You have to _feel _the music, girl!" he said, his voice rising dramatically in volume and pitch. In a moment, before she could even blink, he was next to her, and she squeaked in terror. He put a fist next to her stomach and pulled it up to her throat. "I know you have felt it. I have _seen _you feel it! I have seen it in your eyes—you know what it's like, yet if you cannot find that again, you are worthless."

He scared her—he terrified her, yet the intensity and sheer passion in his eyes when he spoke about music seemed to…speak to her as well. She watched him, staring widely, as his chest went in and out rapidly. He backed away from her then, and he set the piano stool upright before sitting on it.

"Perhaps a demonstration," he said, more to himself, it seemed, than to her. He began without another word, his hands running up and down the keys, and she saw the bottom of his mouth open, and for a split-second, she imagined a thin, reedy voice to suit his frame—but she was literally floored when she heard it. She fell down to the stage, staring at his legs underneath the piano, her mouth wide open.

It was as if the voice of God was singing to her. She had never heard a male voice so incredibly rich and beautiful. It spoke to her, called her, enticed her, and she was too moved to even shed a tear. She had to simply sit there and listen, allow the voice to overwhelm her. It demanded her complete attention, and it forced her into silence and stillness. Christine had never known that such things were possible with a _singing voice_. She had never imagined that something so abstract and intangible could have such a powerful effect. Yet that voice could have coaxed her to do anything…She would have done _anything _for that voice.

She could not remember the name of the song he was singing, though she recalled understanding some of it and recognizing that it was French. The words didn't matter then, though. All that mattered to her was listening to the voice calling her. He could have sung for days, and she wouldn't have had the slightest inclination to move.

However, he didn't sing for longer than a few minutes, and when he was finished, there was a long moment of silence. Christine was trying to gather herself, and she shakily grabbed the piano and pulled herself to her feet, too overwhelmed to be embarrassed that she had spent the entirety of the song on the stage.

"I…" she whispered quietly, and then she was quiet. She couldn't think of anything to say that would express her feelings at the moment.

She thought he was going to say something, but there seemed to be no words to say. He merely gestured to the music she was singing and began her introduction once again. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and sang.

She could feel the difference in the first few notes. This was…ecstasy. It was more than she had ever experienced, and she was afraid to stop but afraid to continue. She knew her voice was nowhere near the Phantom's—it would never be…but she knew she sounded better than she had ever sounded before. It _felt _better. Singing had always been a joy, and now it was becoming something more. It felt like a necessary part of her. The song felt like oxygen. She needed to sing it to live. She needed the music in her head and the song in her mouth to stay alive.

She stumbled over a few of the words and could hear her pitch problems on some of the higher notes…but it didn't seem to matter right then. The Phantom didn't stop, anyway. He continued playing, and she continued singing. There was no stopping until the song was exhausted, finished, complete.

With an aching feeling inside, she finished the last phrase of the song, the sound coming out pure, and then she stopped abruptly, standing there, a hand on her throat, still unable to believe what she had just experienced. It was foreign and terrifying and enthralling.

The sound hung in the air, whispering around the roof and catwalks, the faint overtones hovering over them and disappearing slowly. She was afraid to look at the Phantom. What if he was _still _displeased? She had given everything. It felt as if she had just exposed her very soul. If that was not what he had wanted…then she knew that she would never live up to his expectations for her.

He stood, and the movement caused her to look over. She watched him anxiously. He was silent, gathering his music, and she felt her heart leap in fear. After such an experience…knowing what she could sound like…knowing how she could feel while singing…she wanted to continue. She knew what he meant now. She was committed to this.

"I'm sorry," she then whispered softly.

His gaze snapped to her. "The lesson is over for today," he said simply. "You will return tomorrow remembering what you just experienced. I can make you even greater than that."

She shivered at the thought. _Greater. _How could she be greater than that?

He finished gathering his music and buttoning his coat, and she watched him. She had shared something so…intimate with him. It felt as if she had given part of _herself _over to this…man. A murderer. A man whose name she didn't even know.

As he began walking into the wings, she called out after him.

"Wait!"

He stopped after a couple more steps and turned back around. "What?"

She bit her lip and then said hesitantly, "Will you…will you tell me your name now? Please?"

His yellow eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why would you wish to know that?" he said, his voice sounding colder with each word. He was quickly sinking back into his cruel Phantom persona. The man who taught her music…he was not the same as the murderer. They were both harsh, yes, and both cruel, but the man who taught her to sing only seemed to strive for her perfection.

"I just want to know," she said simply. "I feel a little silly not being able to call you by name."

For an awful moment, she thought that he was going to yell at her and tell her to never ask such a stupid question again, but he then said quietly, "Erik."

The name emboldened her. He was no longer just the deadly Phantom. He was a man with a name, and she walked over to him and put out her hand, trying not to betray herself and shake. He stared at her fingers with disdain.

"Thank you, Erik," she said quietly.

The moment stretched on and became incredibly awkward, as he made no move to shake her hand. Then he said,

"I do not…_touch _people." The last word came out like a vile curse.

"Oh. I'm—I'm sorry." She took her hand back quickly—suddenly remembering his terrifying threat the first time she had encountered him. _If you ever touch me again, I swear that I will kill you_. "I didn't mean to…make you upset. I'm so sorry."

"Stop sniveling in front of me," he said impatiently, as if frustrated. "Now get out of here."

She didn't need telling twice. She turned, grabbed her coat, and ran out of the theater.


	15. Chapter 15

"It was so amazing, _Pappa!_" Christine said excitedly, carefully rubbing cream onto his hands and arms. "It was—I'd never sung like that before. It was like I was singing with the angels! And I could tell that my teacher was pleased that I had found that in myself. I hadn't thought that I could do it. It seemed so hard. But I did it, and it was incredible!"

Gustave smiled at her, listening quietly. She had told him about her voice lessons, and he had been nothing but happy for her. Of course, she hadn't mentioned just _who _gave her lessons or the real reasonsshe had started taking them. She had told him the same story that she had told Raoul: that a professional had heard her singing in the parks, had approached her, and had offered lessons and a chance to audition at the Opera House. Gustave had not questioned her, though she suspected that was most likely because he was still too tired to do so. He merely nodded or softly prompted her with short questions.

"I'm happy for you, _prinsessa_," he said. "You deserve this."

"Thanks, _Pappa,_" she said, smiling widely and continuing to rub his hand. The cream was thick, and she worked it into his skin. After feeling useless, she had asked the doctor if there was anything that she could do to help with his recovery. The doctor had given her a small jar of cream and told her that it would help against infection and scarring, as his arms and hands were covered with small, numerous cuts and scrapes.

He was looking a little better, and it was making her heart slowly swell with joy. He was still fatigued most of the time, but she knew that the sleep was helping him recover and was probably a respite from the pain. His foot was in a heavy cast, held up on a little hook that hung from the ceiling, and there were still numerous bandages covering him. However, his face had filled out just a little, and the dark shadows under his eyes weren't as prominent. He was able to speak to her for longer periods of time without having to pause so much to catch his breath, and she was even beginning to help him manage more solid foods. He was recovering—slowly but surely.

"Where is Raoul?" Gustave then asked, craning his head slowly to look around the room.

"Oh." Christine shrugged a little. "I don't know. Work, probably."

"It's seven o' clock," Gustave said. "He is usually here at this time, no?"

"Yeah," Christine said. "But maybe he couldn't come tonight. He's probably busy with something."

"You should call him and…find out," Gustave said, sounding as firm as he could with his hoarse, tired voice.

"_Pappa_, I don't want to bother him," Christine said embarrassedly.

"Call him," Gustave repeated, frowning just a little.

Christine watched him, completely confused, but she nevertheless pulled out her phone and dialed Raoul's number as Gustave said. She listened to it ring nervously. What if Raoul got annoyed at her? She was like a pestering little child, always demanding his attention. She didn't really want to call, but she didn't want to agitate her father and make him upset.

It rang four times, and she was just beginning to become hopeful that he wouldn't pick it up when she heard a soft _click _and Raoul's voice.

"_Hey, Christine!"_

"Hi," she said, looking at Gustave, who nodded fractionally in approval.

"_What's up?_"

He didn't _sound _annoyed—that was a good sign, wasn't it? Christine nervously tucked a few stray curls behind her ear and said, "Nothing…I was just—um, wondering where you…were. Are you still at work?"

"_Nope_," Raoul said easily. "_I got off a couple hours ago._"

"Oh." She felt her heart begin to sink slightly. She hadn't wanted to call because she didn't want to know if he was purposefully avoiding her. Was it okay if she asked him where he was? Was that in her rights as his girlfriend? Maybe it wasn't—he was always taking care of her, so maybe she should just be grateful that he was still with her.

"_You're at the hospital, right? Do you want me to come down?"_

"Oh—no. Not if you don't want to," she said hurriedly, awkwardly. "I'm…fine."

There was a pause, and then Raoul said gently, "_I will if you want me to, Christine." _He paused again and then said slowly, _"Honestly…I didn't come down today because I feel like you're never glad that I'm there…I mean, I love being there with you and your dad, but I don't want to if you don't want me there, and that's kinda the vibe I've been getting from you…Heh_." He laughed awkwardly.

"I didn't mean to do that," Christine said shamefacedly. "I…I really love it when you're here. I'm sorry that you felt that way. But—but I know that it's probably boring for you. I won't ask you to come here if you don't want to. You probably want to hang out with your…friends and stuff…"

"_Actually, I'd rather hang out with my girlfriend. I like her a lot_."

The comment made her blush with pleasure, and a small smile crept onto her lips. She was glad that he couldn't see it. She glanced at Gustave and then blushed even deeper at his knowing expression and twinkling eyes. Even if he didn't understand the English that well, it was obvious that he understood her pleased expression.

"Well…whatever you want," she then said vaguely.

"_I'll be down in fifteen minutes, okay?"_

Her smile grew a little, and she put her phone away and took Gustave's hand again.

"He's on his way, _Pappa_,"

Gustave nodded a little and then closed his eyes with a soft, tired sigh. She traced a long scar on the back of his hand that went from his middle knuckle to the side of his wrist. It had healed over somewhat, but it left a long, permanent red mark, and she wished that she could kiss it and make it disappear. She hadn't asked again about the reason why he was taken. It had agitated him so much before. She wondered if it would be better for them to wait until he was fully healed before pestering him with questions again.

Two days before, the police had arrived, and Raoul had tried to get her to leave the room, but Gustave had had so much trouble with the English being spoken that Christine was required to stay and translate. His English skills had deteriorated an incredible amount over his absence—and it was painful to see him grow frustrated as he tried to remember specific words or grammar rules. He never spoke English to her, and she never tried. His answers to the police were terrible: he didn't know the men, didn't know why they had taken him, didn't know where he was taken or held…He knew nothing. The police had been disappointed and suspicious about his answers, but he never changed his statement, even under their warning that lying to them was against the law. So they were still left without any rhyme or reason as to why the terrible thing had happened.

When Raoul arrived, he gave Christine a warm hug and then persuaded her to go to dinner with him.

"It won't be anything fancy," he promised. "C'mon, Christine. You need to get away from this hospital for at least a couple hours. You need real food. Let me take you out."

She protested for a while, but then she conceded with a little sigh, knowing that he was probably right. She kissed Gustave's forehead, promised to return as soon as she could, and allowed Raoul to take her hand and lead her out of the hospital and to his car.

"This is nice," he said to her as they drove. "We haven't had time to ourselves in a while."

Christine felt guilty about that. She hadn't tried to make time to spend with Raoul. She knew that it would be good for their relationship if she tried harder with him—but oftentimes it just felt so difficult. Now she was trying to focus on her lessons as well as ensure that her _Pappa _was being taken care of…And she was constantly worried about her relationship withRaoul. He was such a good man. It was still hard to believe that they were together.

At the restaurant, she told him about her lesson, feeling a burst of enthusiasm when she began talking about it.

"It was incredible," she said, feeling rare joy bloom in her chest as she spoke about it. "It just made me realize how important singing was to me. I've always loved to sing before, but this…Today I just realized that I had to sing. It's the only thing I want to do."

He smiled a little at her, and then he said, "But just remember that the music business is…_extremely _competitive, Christine. I was thinking about you today, you know. I was thinking that maybe it would be a good idea for you to try to go to school once your dad was out of the hospital."

"Oh…yeah," she said vaguely. She didn't want to reject the idea outright—he would think that she was lazy and stupid and didn't want to pursue a higher education.

"Yeah, I think it would be good for you," he continued earnestly. "I mean, maybe just part-time in the beginning, so you can work or something. I could help you get a loan—I know some guys who would be happy to give you one if you were using the money to go to school. And this way, if the whole singing thing doesn't work out, you'd have a degree to fall back on. What do you think?"

It sounded logical, but she knew that the Phantom—_Erik_—would probably not exactly agree to such a proposal. He had made her swear that she would completely devote herself to music. She wouldn't have time to go to school if she sang at the Opera House. And she had a flickering hope that she would pass her auditions. With the Phantom teaching her like he was, she already felt good about her chances.

"I'll look into it," she lied, forcing a smile. He grinned back at her, and she realized, with some sense of shame and depression, just how much she was keeping from Raoul. He was one of the last people in the world she would ever want to lie to, but…he didn't understand music like she did. He would never understand what had happened to her during that lesson. Raoul enjoyed music, yes, but he would much rather go to a sports game than to a symphony or an opera. She knew it, and she knew she would never be able to explain it to him.

At her lesson the next day, she confessed to the Phantom what Raoul had said.

"My boyfriend thinks that I should go to school once my dad's out of the hospital," she said, staring at the sheet music in her hands.

The Phantom looked up at her and glared a little. "Absurd," he said shortly. "You shall not have enough time to attend."

"Yeah, I know. But he said that the music industry is too competitive and that I should at least have a degree to fall back on if this doesn't work out. Don't you think so?"

He reacted just as she had predicted he would: with outrage.

"You dare doubt your own abilities?" he demanded. "You dare to think that I will not lead you to success?"

"No!" she whispered hurriedly. "It's just—it's scary, you know, to think like that…Raoul said—"

"You will _not _listen to the drivel that comes from that _boy's _mouth," the Phantom interrupted coldly. "He knows nothing. He knows nothing about our music. Pay him no mind—he is only upsetting you and distracting you."

Christine nodded immediately.

"You will trust the plan that I have laid for you," the Phantom continued, looking a little calmer at her ready consent. "I have told you before: your potential is seemingly limitless. You will thrive under my tutelage."

"Okay…Erik," she said, saying his name out loud for the second time. He stared at her then for a while, and she resisted visibly squirming. It made her feel better knowing that he had a name. He had a simple, normal name. He _had _a name. He wasn't a real ghost or Phantom—he was a man…a strange, awful, genius, passionate man.

"I do not wish for my…_name _to be known to others," the Phantom then said. "Have you told anyone about me?"

Grateful that she could be honest about it, she said: "I told my dad and boyfriend that I was taking voice lessons. That's all, I swear. I didn't tell them who you were or anything else."

"And it will remain that way," he said firmly. "For…apparent reasons, I am sure."

She laughed nervously and then blushed at how stupid the laugh came out sounding. "Yeah," she said, her voice sounding a little choked. "Um, hey…Erik?"

He sighed forcefully, a sign of annoyance. "What?"

"The police talked to my dad about his—his disappearance. My dad says that he doesn't know anything about the people who took him. He says that there wasn't any reason. I've tried to talk to him about it, but he keeps saying that I should just forget it. Are you sure…? I mean, do you really think that he was taken…because of the reasons you said?"

"I knowhe was," the Phantom said shortly. "And who am I to care about your dealings with your father? It means nothing to me. Enough of this. You will sing for me now."

Christine was hurt by his consistently-indifferent attitude. He didn't care about anything except the music, and it was hard for her. He had been the one who had found her father…but he was unwilling to discuss it with her. He must have considered his part of the bargain completely finished: her father returned, no more questions asked.

The Phantom sighed again. "_Christine_."

Her head snapped up in surprise. It was the first time he had said her name aloud, and somehow it made her feel infinitesimally better—as if he had acknowledged her as a real person, just as his name somehow made him seem more like a real person.

"I am certain that your father has his reasons for lying to you—presumably not to question your trust in him, as you seem to exhibit a childlike dependency upon him. While I do not agree with the methods he is using, it is clear that he is simply attempting to mend a gross mistake in judgment. He does not wish for you to think differently about him."

Christine nearly took a step backward. She felt a little sick, but she tried to fight it. No—that was all a lie. Gustave had never lied to her before. He had never had any reason to lie to her. The Phantom was making it all up, but she didn't know why.

"Tomorrow I shall bring you proof," the Phantom then said, sounding somewhat tired. "I can see it has come down to that. After that, I will hear no more of it. Understood?"

She nodded at once, but she wondered if that was what she really wanted. The Phantom's proof would surely be indisputable. Did she really want to know? Or did she want to content herself to forever doubting that her father had truly done something like this?

Late that night, she watched her sleeping father, afraid that he had done it and afraid of what her feelings would be if she found out that he _did_. Could she forgive him for his lies? Would she even tell him that she knew? And…would she even want to know when the time came?

The Phantom had papers for her—records for her to examine. He spread out several sheets on top of the piano, and she stood by him (not too close) and listened in despair as he spoke and pointed out the evidence that was beginning to become incontrovertible.

Some months ago, a very large sum of money had unexpectedly been deposited into his bank account. Christine had not known of anything special that had occurred. He hadn't sold anything or been given money or anything of the sort. She looked at the dates and the sum of the money that coincided with them. The sum remained, but when she had lost her job, she could see that the account began to dwindle a little. Twice a month, a small sum of money was deposited, and Erik told her that it was his paychecks from the theater orchestra. He pulled out a small stack of long, rectangular papers, and Christine realized that they were a collection of his paycheck stubs, which Gustave had kept on file—just in case, he had said. She had never looked at them.

The amount of money on the paycheck and the amount deposited never added up. Even if the money used for food and bills was accounted for, there was still some missing. As her father was not a spendthrift or wasted his money in any way, Christine began to see the truth of it all. It suffocated her, and she could hardly stand to listen as the Phantom finished up his explanations. He then looked at her seriously and said,

"I found your father in a basement, just as I had told you before. The men keeping him there were the men he had unwisely borrowed money from."

She sniffled tearfully and looked over the records, not really reading the numbers at all. "I don't understand," she whispered. "Why…why did he do this to us? Why didn't he just…go to the bank for a loan?"

"He has virtually no credit score," the Phantom said. "He must have known that he would be refused for a loan—assuming he didn't try before and was denied. Now, are you satisfied? You are falling behind on your lessons. Your audition is mere weeks away."

The Phantom was expecting her to absorb this information quietly and emotionlessly. But how could she? She had just seen proof of her father's actions before her very eyes. She had just been told awful truths that she had attempted to deny. It felt like betrayal, and it stung fiercely.

However, she didn't want the Phantom to yell at her, and so she sang dutifully for an hour or so, her mind far away from the actual music, still dwelling on the papers and the numbers and the details. She sought desperately for an alternative story, but she couldn't invent one that would account for all of the things that had happened.

Finally, the Phantom stopped, obviously frustrated by her. "If you cannot make yourself focus, then there is no point in holding a lesson today. Be warned, girl—my patience is growing thin, and I've never had much to begin with. You _will _practice and be focused tomorrow, else I shall find an…_alternative _way to make you so."

Christine shuddered a little, nodded, and left the theater, trying to control all the feelings that were riling up inside of her.

Before she went back to the hospital, Christine hurried to her old apartment to pick up the mail. As she rode the bus, she opened the bills in despair. Her rent was due soon, and the hospital had sent her its first bill of what was sure to be a long line of them. She turned pale as she stared at the figure. She did not have enough money—in no way did she have enough. She needed money for rent and food, but she had to keep her father in the hospital. Their insurance had been…minimal, and she knew that she would be required to pay most of the money required.

Feeling despair sink deeper into her stomach, she shoved the bills in her bag and got off the bus to walk the few blocks to the hospital. Winter was still prominent in the air, and Christine shivered a little as she hurried to the warm, large brick building.

Her father was sleeping quietly, and she sat in the chair next to him, wiping away some stray tears with trembling fingers. She was alone and terrified. She couldn't ask Raoul for money—he was her boyfriend, not her benefactor. Quietly, she picked up Gustave's cold hand and pressed it fervently, trying to think of a solution to get out of the horrid mess she was in. If Gustave had truly done what the Phantom told her he had, then she knew that she forgave him. Gustave was undoubtedly acting in what he thought was her best interest. Things had simply…gotten out of hand. It had almost cost him his life.

She had emptied her bank account weeks ago when she had first tried to contact Erik, and she doubted that they would be eager to give her a loan if she asked for one. Like the Phantom had said, they had virtually no credit. They had pretty much lived paycheck to paycheck.

Gustave woke in the late afternoon, and Christine helped him as he struggled to eat what the hospital had given to him. She said nothing about what the Phantom had told her, and she had a sad feeling that she would never ask him about it.

She knew the answer, and she didn't want to hear it.


	16. Chapter 16

"I got something for you today."

Christine looked up at him, wondering what it could be. Raoul looked excited, anxious to please her, and she smiled a little at his expression. He had come back from work and had surprised her by promptly setting down his bag, grabbing her, and kissing her deeply. They had cuddled on the front couch for a long while, and Christine was grateful for the distraction.

"What did you get me?" she said, settling her cheek on his shoulder.

They were in his apartment, and it was warm and homey-smelling, though that didn't settle the uneasy feeling that was constantly in Christine's stomach. After days of sleeping in the chair by Gustave, she had been told (gently and then with increasing firmness) by both the doctors and the nurses that she really was _not_ allowed to live in her father's hospital room. No doubt alarmed by her apparent distress at the news, they had vowed to call her at once if anything changed. Christine had used basically all the money she had to pay for the first hospital bill, but that left nothing for her upcoming rent and the other utilities she was required to pay. And so, with increasing desperation and an unwillingness to trouble her father with such concerns, Christine had given up her apartment and had moved in with Raoul, selling or donating her old furniture and other things she couldn't take with her. She had been living with him for a week, and he was as sweet and supportive as ever. Still…it nearly made her sick to be aware of just how needy and helpless she was. She wanted to help him with the bills and groceries, yet she was virtually penniless. Christine didn't even want to think about the upcoming hospital bills that were surely on their way.

Raoul kissed her forehead, and she could feel a smile on his lips. Then he shifted, and she moved to allow him to sit up. He reached over to his discarded bag and pulled out a bunch of glossy, colorful pamphlets. He presented them to her proudly.

"Ta-da!" he said, placing them in her lap. "I managed to get a bunch of them, so you can have as many options as you need."

Christine looked at them with rising anxiety. They were pamphlets for local colleges and universities, the logos and emblems emblazoned across the front in the varying school colors—blues and greens and reds and purples and oranges…It was like a rainbow.

"Well, what do you think?" Raoul pressed. "Most of them are right here in the city—just, you know, community colleges and stuff. But this one is a smaller, four-year public university." He tapped a pamphlet that had a picture of a bunch of smiling people holding books in front of a red brick building. "My secretary actually went here. She says it's a really good school for having such low tuition. I looked at the programs. They're things that you could really use, Christine. Or if you don't think you're ready for a four-year school, you could try a two-year one to start out with and then transfer…You know, just whatever you want."

Christine picked one up at random and flipped open the pamphlet to give the appearance that she was actually interested in it. She knew it would be good for her to go get a higher education, but…Erik was so strict. And once she was singing at the Opera House, there really would be no time for her to go. And if she was singing there, why would she need to go to school? If she secured employment singing on any stage anywhere, she would be content for the rest of her life.

It was natural for Raoul to want this for her. He was very smart. He had attended one of the top schools in the nation and had graduated with honors. She remembered the first time she had met him—he had been doing schoolwork.

It had been in Paris during a late summer afternoon. Gustave had been playing his violin at a park, and Christine had grown tired of singing. Gustave had given her permission to play, so long as she didn't go too far. She wandered down some of the pathways, looking at all the people with wide-eyed curiosity. As she was passing a large tree, she saw a young man sitting on one of the benches, scribbling in a notebook.

Being eleven, she was instantly smitten by the handsome young man, and she stared at him shyly from behind another tree, watching as the golden sunlight spilled across him, like some heavenly light shining on him. Christine knew she had rather romanticized the memory, but she still liked to think of it that way sometimes.

She was still too shy to even consider approaching him, and so Gustave had come to fetch her and they left for the day. However, a few days later when they returned, the young man was there again. Christine sat by a nearby fountain and watched him some more, playing with her mother's necklace in her small hands.

The young man noticed her after a few minutes, and he looked at her in confusion and awkward embarrassment before looking back to the tree. Raoul liked to tease her about it now, stating that she had simply stared at him for a solid ten minutes—a little girl with wild hair in a pink dress.

As she was watching him while trying to look like she _wasn't _watching him, her necklace slipped between her fingers and landed with a little splash in the fountain. Christine immediately began to wail, loudly and dramatically.

A moment later, the young man stood and walked toward her. She had been tempted to run away, but she was too distraught over her necklace to even move, and she sat by the fountain and continued to cry.

He crouched down in front of her—sixteen and already tall and handsome. "_Bonjour_," he said softly. "Are you lost, little girl?"

She shook her head, sniffling childishly and wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"Where are your parents?" he then asked.

Christine pointed over to Gustave, who could be seen in a small stone courtyard, playing a pretty song on his violin.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Why are you crying?"

Christine blubbered that she had dropped her necklace in the fountain and that it had been her _maman's_—the only thing she had from her.

"Don't cry," Raoul had said, looking over the edge of the fountain. "I'll get it back for you."

She watched tearfully as he looked. Then he took off his shoes and socks and stepped into the water, walking around for a moment before plunging a hand in and pulling out the necklace. Christine gave a strangled cry of delight and held out her hand. He gave it to her with a smile.

As the weeks progressed, Christine saw him again and again, always sitting on the bench with one of his notebooks. For the first few days, she had hid behind the tree and watched him. Finally, apparently uncomfortable with her staring at him from behind a tree, he had told her to come and sit by him whenever she wanted.

"What are you doing?" was the first thing she asked. "With that." She pointed to his notebook.

"Schoolwork," he said. "It's nice out here. I can concentrate a lot better."

For several months afterward, Christine would see him at the park whenever her father went there to play. She would sit by him on his bench and swing her feet back and forth, leaning over his arm to see what he was writing or sketching (he was never a good artist, though not from lack of trying). And he would laugh at her girlish comments and humor her endlessly. Sometimes he asked her to help him with simple math problems or other primary school things, material she could do and feel good about. She talked about her father a lot.

"He's a good violinist," he said kindly as Gustave's music drifted around the park. "He plays here a lot, doesn't he?"

Then spring turned into early summer, and his school year had ended. He came the last day with a present for her. It hadn't been anything incredibly special, just some candies and chocolates, but she loved it and had thanked him earnestly.

"Thanks for helping me with my schoolwork, Christine," he had said. "I got good marks on it, especially on the days when you helped me."

She didn't see him again for another nine years, yet when she did, he was still as patient and charming and good-natured as ever. He wanted good things for her—but she wasn't sure that the good things he wanted were the best things. Christine knew she needed to sing. She needed to do it for herself and for her father. She had been progressing well in her lessons. The Phantom hadn't snapped at her as often lately, and she could hear the improvement in her tone and timbre. She was getting better, and she knew that the Phantom _was _leading her to becoming a star, just as he had said.

She looked at the pamphlets again, knowing just how much it meant to Raoul, and she gathered them up and forced herself to smile at him. "I'll look these over," she lied cheerfully. "Thank you so much, Raoul." Then she stood and said, "I'm going to see my dad for a couple of hours. I'll be back later."

He offered to go with her, but she insisted that he was tired after working all day.

"It won't be very long," she said. "I'll come straight back. You should stay here and relax."

He conceded, and she rode the bus to the hospital, anxious to be with her _Pappa_. Still, there was a sad feeling in her heart that she couldn't confide in Gustave like she used to. She didn't want to cause him unnecessary stress or anxiety, and so she lied to him about her state. Everything was perfect—she was getting along fine with rent and with other bills…

"You look pale, _Pappa_," she then said concernedly, putting a hand on his cheek. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Just tired, Lotte," Gustave replied softly, and he did indeed look exhausted. "Don't worry about me."

Still unconvinced, Christine asked a nurse when she entered whether or not there had been any changes regarding him at all. The nurse replied that there hadn't been any visible serious changes—just normal things like exhaustion and such.

"I wish I could be with you all the time," Christine said, pressing Gustave's hand fervently. "I hate being away from you."

"It is good for you to go out—away from this terrible hospital," Gustave said. "You should not be stuck in here. You are young. You should be out singing and spending time with Raoul."

"Well, I'm only singing for you," Christine said, putting Gustave's hand to her cheek. "When you get better, you can come watch me perform. I'll sing my heart out just for you, _Pappa_."

He smiled at her, and she felt her heart tug a little at knowing why he was here and that he still thought her ignorant to the reasons. She wanted to know who had taken him from her, and she wanted those men put in prison. But Gustave would never tell her, and the Phantom had said that she shouldn't dwell on it anymore. Everyone wanted her to forget the why and simply be grateful that her father was returned—and she was grateful, but it nearly broke her heart that Gustave had done what he had. And he was still so hurt! The men who did it needed to be punished accordingly. Still, Christine was worried that if she told the police about what she knew, her father would get into some sort of trouble. That was the last thing they needed. Christine rather felt like she had too much to handle at the moment.

They had at last started working on her audition song, and it was difficult. Thankfully, it was in French, so the language was no problem for her, but the practicing was difficult—more difficult than she had anticipated. The Phantom was pressing her for absolute perfection, something she hadn't yet achieved vocally. She had had no idea that so many elements went into singing a song. When she had sung with her father, she had simply allowed the joy of music to shape her voice. The Phantom, however, wanted _more_—more of her.

Her voice rang in the small, dusty theater for hours at a time, often interrupted by the Phantom's corrections. It came as something of a disgruntling surprise for her…but she found that she did much better if she listened to him. Perhaps it was not the most soothing revelation—but it was common sense, and so she began drinking in his guidance.

_More_—more emotion during the second verse. Less volume but more intensity on the third cadenza. Emphasis on this phrase. More head voice here—less vibrato there—incorrect pronunciation on this word—a rushed tempo during this line…

The song was becoming overwhelming. Erik was harsh, demanding, and impatient. If he had to correct her on a particular mistake more than once, he would take the time to say something unpleasant. She tried very hard not to repeat mistakes simply so she did not have to listen to his biting comments. He had made her cry several times. His voice was terrible, booming thunder or quiet, hot fire, and they both hurt equally.

However, one afternoon, to her relief, she had been doing better than she ever had. It was almost a repeat of the ethereal afternoon during which the Phantom had sung for her. Her voice felt effortless, weightless, and she felt as if she could do anything. She sang loudly and confidently, and she was glad to see that Erik was obviously pleased. He played the accompaniment with that physical vigor known to talented musicians, and his hands jumped and glided over the keys. He looked at her occasionally, his eyes burning, but she didn't allow herself to falter. She was too far gone, now—nothing could touch her…She was not bound by fear or terror or anxiety. The music helped her escape and achieve complete freedom.

Near the end of her song, there was a loud, sudden _slam_, and she jumped, her voice squeaking to a halt, and she looked around. The Phantom lifted his hands from the keys and swore quietly.

"We have outstayed our welcome here, I'm afraid," he then said, standing and collecting the music. "It is time for us to leave."

"Really?" she said disappointedly. "I felt like I was just finally getting somewhere…"

"You were. You were finally finding it. But it is late, and the theater is now going to be used for its…intended purposes."

As she watched him close the lid of the piano, Christine heard a distant shriek of drunken laughter, and she blushed a little. When she checked the time, she was shocked to see that it was after six o' clock. She had been practicing for hours without even realizing it.

"I would have liked to work further," Erik said, buttoning his coat, "but it is best to be off before we are discovered by unsavory company…Not that I am one to speak about such things," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Christine laughed, and then she covered her mouth quickly at the glaring look he gave her. "Sorry," she muttered. "I just thought…it was funny." She berated herself a little. It was completely inappropriate of her to laugh at that. Still, her mood wasn't too dampened by that, and she said, "Thanks for the lesson today, Erik. I really enjoyed it. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Memorize your song," he said. Christine offered him another smile as an agreement, and then she turned and headed out of the theater quickly, not wanting to see anyone or meet anyone that might have been in the theater.

The air was crisp, and she couldn't help but grin a little as she climbed onto a bus and headed back to Raoul's apartment. Although hardly anything was solved, she felt the happy, peaceful feeling that things would turn out all right. It would be hard, and there would be struggles, but she felt so good from her lesson that it felt like it was impossible for things to continue being awful.

Raoul was watching a game on television, and he stood up when she walked in.

"Hi!" she said cheerfully, still on her music high. The apartment seemed brighter and warmer than before, and she couldn't wait to see her father later that night.

"Hey," he said. "Where were you?"

"Lessons," she said, somewhat dreamily, and she pulled off her coat and set her bag down. "It was amazing, Raoul. I mean I finally feel that I'm getting somewhere. I'm finally understanding what my teacher's talking about. I just felt so good, you know? I _still _feel good. Singing just…I can't even describe it. I'm so glad that I'm able to have lessons from such a genius musician."

"Yeah…heh." Raoul cleared his throat a little, apparently unsure of how to respond.

As they ate dinner, Christine resisted the urge to hum her audition song under her breath. She wanted to go back and sing until she fell from exhaustion. It was as if her entire frame was humming with excited energy, and she felt as if the only person who would understand her want to sing was Erik.

"So have you looked over any of those pamphlets I gave you?" Raoul asked. "If you hurry, you could probably make the application deadlines."

"Oh yeah…" She took a deep breath and said honestly, "I dunno, Raoul. I mean…I'm going to be busy with singing in a month or so. I don't think that I'll have time to go to school as well."

"Well, most of them offer classes at night or in the mornings," Raoul said, looking a little unhappy at her unwillingness. "I just really think it would be good for you…You know, when you get tired of being in a chorus for the rest of your life."

The comment hurt deeply, but she didn't want to fight with him, and so she was silent, staring at her plate, poking at her vegetables. She was afraid of making him upset, because what if he broke up with her? Then she would have no one—and nothing. No place to sleep, nothing to eat…He was pretty much everything to her now.

"Look," he said gently, reaching to take her hand. "I know that singing sounds like a fun thing to do now. I'm sure it will be fun for a while. But in a couple of years…I just don't want you regretting the fact that you wasted all this time when you could have done something useful, like get a degree. If you want to sing, great. But please think about night classes at _least_, Christine. I'd hate to see you make such a big mistake if you spend all your time and energy in something that probably won't turn out. Degrees are solid, Christine. They're never worthless, and an education never depreciates in value. Okay?"

"Yeah," she said softly. "Okay." Her elated feelings were falling, but she didn't want Raoul to see.

"I mean, it doesn't have to be something crazy, like being a doctor or a lawyer. You could just go to school and learn to teach French or something…Maybe you could even get a school to hire you to teach Swedish—there's always a demand for teachers, and they have real-paying jobs." He smiled at her, and she wanted him to stop talking about it more than anything else. She forced herself to return his smile.

Thankfully, he switched the subject after her consent, but his words continued to ring in her ear. He thought what she was doing was worthless…

But it was only natural. There were millions of girls who dreamed of becoming a famous singer, yet only the smallest fraction ever succeeded. Who was she among all those talented, eager, hopeful, ambitious girls? Raoul simply didn't want her to end up hurt. But…he didn't understand. Erik had promised to make her great. He was teaching her to become something—_not _to spend her life in the chorus, singing backup to someone else. Her audition was weeks away, and she wanted and needed to work and practice hard. Erik would never understand or comply if she said she needed to go to school to make her boyfriend happy.

In fact, Christine rather felt like Erik wouldn't understand Raoul at all.


	17. Chapter 17

She had barely gotten through the second line when he stopped her.

"Stop!" he said loudly, pressing some particularly vicious-sounding chords in frustration. "No, _no! _Where is your focus today, girl?"

"I'm sorry," she said tiredly, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. "I'm really sorry."

"I do not want apologies," he said. "I want focus and dedication."

"I know, I know," she replied hurriedly. "It's just…Well, Raoul is pushing school at me again, and the nurses told me that my dad lost weight this week, and…I'm just stressed right now. I'm sorry."

Erik's yellow eyes were narrowed, and she could see his chin clenching in displeasure. "Have you told this…_boy _of yours that your path is music, and music alone?"

"Of course I have," Christine said, her elbows on the piano, her chin in her hands. "But he just thinks it's unrealistic of me. He doesn't think that I can make a living by singing."

"He believes that music is about _money?_" the Phantom sneered. "Is this what you believe as well? Do you believe that you are here only to become wealthy?"

"No—not at all! I know, Erik. I _know_. Music is—_singing _is…It's the only thing I can do now. What I've felt while I've sung here is more than I can ever describe. I don't want to do anything else. I feel like I can't do anything else. But Raoul doesn't understand. And maybe he's right. I mean, singing is so competitive. Even if I sing, I'm just scared that…I won't earn enough to…you know, stay alive. I have to have a place to live and things to eat. I have to pay the hospital bills and stuff." She felt her cheeks go red at her monologue, and she stared at the lid of the piano. It didn't shine. There wasn't a gleaming reflection looking back at her.

"Music will provide everything you need," Erik then said. "You would die _without _it. I have seen it in you—you have felt it as well. If you continue to live for music, then everything else will fall into place."

It all sounded completely crazy. Music couldn't provide for her. She couldn't sing and have food and an apartment magically appear in front of her. She couldn't just ignore her problems and sing and expect everything to sort itself out. But…she knew what Erik was saying. She understood his true meaning. Music was now essential to her. After feeling what true music really was and experiencing it in her own body, she couldn't simply give it up.

"You should not be attached to that _boy_ any longer," Erik then said curtly. She looked at him in shock.

"You mean Raoul?" she said. "You think—you don't think I should date him?"

"If he cannot understand the music, then he will never understand your decisions," the Phantom said. "You have chosen an ignorant Philistine, and he will drag you down into mediocrity. He will force you to spend your life doing something worthless...coerce you into doing some banal desk job…"

Christine felt a huge urge to remind the Phantom that he _killed _people for a living and that doing a desk job would probably be a better lifestyle for her if she had to, but…that wouldn't go over very well, she was sure.

"I like Raoul," she said softly, not wanting Erik to yell at her anymore. "He might not get a lot of the things that I do, but he's always been supportive of me. He just wants what's best for me."

"No," Erik argued. "What is _best _for you is music. He cannot ever understand that."

"Maybe not," Christine agreed. "But he'll support me."

"Oh?" He stood, his fingers curling around the edge of the piano. Christine resisted taking a few hasty steps backward. She tried to stand her ground. "Is discouraging you and making you doubt your potential _supportive? _I have half a mind to command you to end your relationship with him."

"Erik—you can't do that!" Christine said desperately. "Please don't! I like Raoul a lot. I know you probably don't get him, but he's a really great guy. He's even letting me live with him because—"

"_You are living with him?"_

She blanched, completely unprepared for his reaction. Trembling a little, she said tremulously, "Yeah, I am. I don't…have anywhere else to go. I had to use all of my savings to pay the first hospital bill. I…don't have any money for rent or food." She began to blush. It was embarrassing. "And you won't let me get a job. I don't have anywhere else to go. Raoul is…the only person I know who'll help me like this. I don't _want _to live with him, I really don't, I feel so awful for using him like this. And I know it's not right for me to live with him like this before I'm married—but we sleep in different rooms and…" She trailed off, realizing what she was saying, and she blushed brightly and cleared her throat awkwardly. "I'm just trying to say that I need Raoul. Until I start earning money, I need him."

The Phantom watched her closely, and then he said curtly, "As I said before, the only thing you _need _is music. The music will provide."

It was easy for him to say that, she thought to herself miserably. He killed people for huge amounts of money—he was probably rich. That left enough support for him to obsess about music.

She wished the same could be said for her. As she got off the bus at the hospital, she walked along the few blocks, the cold winter breeze lifting up a few of her curls. She smoothed them down as best she could, hurrying into the somewhat-warm hospital and walking to Gustave's room. Every day he spent in here was another huge sum of money on the upcoming bill. Still, she knew that he couldn't leave. Not yet. He needed the best medical attention possible to get well, yet his health was coming with a painful and very visible price.

As she sat down by him, she frowned deeply. He was whiter than she was comfortable with, and he was asleep. That worried her; she wanted him awake during the day. Why wasn't he falling back into a normal sleep pattern?

A nurse walked in a minute later, and Christine looked over at her.

"Has anything changed?" she asked anxiously. "He looks…pretty bad."

The nurse nodded. "We're aware, Miss Daae, and we're monitoring him carefully. He's had a couple fevers in the last few days."

"Why haven't I been told this?" Christine demanded instantly. "Why is this happening? He's here to get better, not get sicker!"

"Fevers are there to help people get better, Miss Daae—to fight off infection and kill bad things inside the body. Right now your father's fevers are small enough not to be the cause of much alarm. He's probably simply fighting off some small infections. But be assured that we're watching him carefully. If his fever rises, we'll be here. All right?"

Though she still felt something tugging at her and worry gnawing at her, Christine nodded, and the nurse left after taking Gustave's pulse and temperature. After watching him for a moment, Christine sat down next to him and took his hand, holding it firmly. With her free hand, she lightly toyed with her cross necklace.

"I wish you were here, _Pappa_," she said softly. "I miss you so much. I want you home with me. I don't want you to be sick anymore. Please get better—please."

It was late by the time she got back to Raoul's apartment. He was on the phone, and he waved at her when she walked in. She watched him for a moment, recalling her lesson from earlier that day.

Even though Raoul didn't understand music the same way she did, he was still a good man. She cared about him, and she liked being in his company. Was it really such a big deal that he didn't share her passion for music? Lots of couples had differing interests, and they worked out perfectly. She and Raoul had disagreed before on lots of different things, but, in the end, they were still together. And if he saw her perform and saw how much she needed to, maybe he would stop pressuring her with school. She _wanted _to go to school…but she wanted the music more. And she still wanted Raoul. Didn't she?

When he hung up his phone, he approached her and hugged her, saying, "Hey. How's your dad?"

"He's had some fevers," she said, trying not to sound too depressing. "But…hopefully he'll be okay soon."

"I'm sure he will," Raoul said confidently. "He's getting good medical attention. He'll be fine."

She nodded vaguely, feeling a little comforted when Raoul pulled her close and rubbed her back. She leaned against his strong chest, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. His masculine scent was familiar and soothing.

"It's Valentine's Day next week," he then said. "I was thinking that we could go somewhere for the weekend."

"What?" She suddenly felt cornered, and she pulled away from him slightly.

"Just for a couple of days," he assured her. "Wherever you wanted to go, really. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Oh…" she said. "Oh, I don't think so. I can't—I can't be away from my dad for that long."

"Just for two days?" Raoul said, his face crumpling in displeasure. "C'mon, Christine…"

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm getting worried about him. I don't think he should be getting sick like this."

"But the hospital has your number _and _mine. They could call us if anything happened at all!" He was looking unhappier by the moment, and she was afraid of making him so upset, but she couldn't bear the thought of leaving Gustave.

"I'm really sorry," she repeated earnestly. "I just—not now. It's a bad time. I'm sorry."

"You can spend all day long at your voice lessons away from your dad, but you can't spend two days with me?" he said sourly. "That seems fair…" He turned to walk to his bedroom, and she hurried after him, catching his hand, feeling a little panicked.

"Can we please not make this into a big thing?" she begged. "Maybe some other time…"

"No, Christine," he said, turning to look at her, his cheeks becoming a little flushed. "I guess I need to have this talk with you right now. This whole…thing. This thing. I mean, we're a couple, right? You think of me as your boyfriend, right?"

"Yeah…" she said uncertainly, afraid and unsure of where he was going with it. She dropped his hand.

"Then _why _do you treat me like some—I don't know, some good friend or…like a _brother?"_

"I don't," she said blankly. "I mean, we…kiss and stuff. I wouldn't do that to my brother."

"No, there's no 'and stuff,'" he said shortly. "We kiss, and that's it. Listen, I'm not trying to pressure you into sleeping with me or anything, but I think there's a problem when you won't even spend a few days with me for Valentine's. We sleep in separate _rooms_, Christine, for crying out loud! This whole thing is just not…normal. You're at lessons all day, you see your dad, and then you come back and sleep in a different room. We're like roommates—not a couple. I can't remember the last time we went out on an actual, planned date. That's not how a relationship like this is supposed to work. Everything was fine, but then…that thing with your dad, and you started taking those lessons…and…I don't know, Christine. I don't know." He held his hands up, his eyes closed and head bowed slightly, a sign that he was trying to force himself to remain calm.

"I'm trying to be patient with you," he then said. "I know that this is your first real relationship. But you have to realize how frustrating it is for me when I make all this effort and you won't even try. Sometimes I think…" He trailed off and then rubbed his face, sighing angrily. "Whatever. Call me crazy or old-fashioned, but I always thought that it took two people to make a relationship work." He gave her one last look and then went to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

She stared at his closed door in shock. Raoul was an extremely patient person, and that was one of the many things she adored about him. It took big things to set him off like that, enough that he would turn and walk away and shut a door in her face. What was she supposed to do now? Did he want her to grovel, beg for forgiveness like she usually did? She bit her lip and took a few steps toward his door.

"Raoul?" she said, knocking softly.

There was no answer, and she felt herself tear up a little. Maybe she wasn't cut out for this. All of the stress and the worry made her exhausted, and she cried all the time. She had thought that having her father back would erase all the worry from her life, but it only seemed to be increasing. Her lessons, her relationship with Raoul, her father's health, her financial state…everything was pressing in on her, and she didn't feel strong enough to shoulder it all. And now Raoul—the person she had relied on most—was finally realizing that he could do better. He was finally seeing what his mother had told him all those weeks ago. She was a pathetic, stupid little Swede with baggage and nothing going for her…

Feeling the tears begin to drip down her cheeks, she knocked one last time and whispered, "I'm so sorry." Then she pulled her coat back on and left. There was nowhere for her to go, but Raoul's apartment was smothering her, and she was afraid that he didn't want her there anymore. She didn't want to annoy him. That was the last thing she ever wanted to do to him.

It wasn't snowing, but the air seemed frozen, and she breathed against her hands and crossed her arms tightly, walking along the dim streets. Her wet cheeks were very cold, and she rubbed them and wiped at her eyes. She wondered if she would be allowed in the hospital…though that was unlikely. Now that her father was stable, she had been told that it would be appreciated if she only sat by him during visiting hours.

Feeling more alone and more dejected and unwanted than ever, she continued to walk down the sidewalks, the tears continually dripping down her face. She hated the fact that she was nearly always in tears, but she didn't know how else to express all of the awful feelings inside of her. She wasn't strong—she had always known that. She wasn't one of those strong, powerful, independent women. She was a frightened little girl who always needed someone to cling to.

After a while, she knew she couldn't walk the streets all night, and she sniffled loudly and turned around to walk back to Raoul's apartment. He was probably asleep already, still angry at her. Tomorrow she would have to tell him how sorry she was and how he was right and how she needed to do better. She was sure that she had that apology memorized—she said it to him often enough.

But what did he want from her? She tried hard to do everything right for everyone. She tried to work hard in her lessons, ensure her father's health, and be what Raoul wanted, yet she apparently _wasn't_ what he wanted. Leaving her father for two whole days seemed entirely out of the question. She was terrified that something would happen, and she wouldn't be there to help him in whatever way she could. Was Raoul unhappy about their living arrangements? Did he want her to sleep in the same room with him again? The last time that had happened, it had turned out badly. Raoul had wanted…different things than she did. Would there be a repeat of that? Or maybe he was upset because she hadn't applied for any of the colleges like he had suggested. Still…that wasn't what she wished for.

She felt like she was trying to split herself too many different ways. She wanted to please everyone, yet it was becoming too demanding. All the pressure was soon going to crush her, and then she would be helpless and unable to do anything for anyone.

As she was walking past a tall building, a hand suddenly grabbed her arm and pulled her around, and she opened her mouth to scream. However, when she saw who it was, only a loud, startled gasp came out.

"Erik!" she nearly wheezed, clutching at her racing heart. "You really—scared me!"

"_What _are you doing out here?" he hissed, his eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. "This weather can damage your voice! You are not even dressed properly!"

She glanced down at her jeans and old coat, and then she felt faint embarrassment. She was always crying around him, and this time was obviously no exception, with her puffy, swollen eyes and runny nose. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her coat, trying to calm herself a little and swallow oncoming tears.

"Raoul and I had a—a fight," she hiccoughed.

"I really couldn't care less," the Phantom said shortly. "You are an imprudent girl if you think that you can get away with so much stupidity! You could have been murdered or raped out here, and then my substantial time and investment in your voice would have been a waste."

Christine paled a little, though she did not choose to bring up the subject of _his _murdering people. That seemed to be quite taboo.

"However, it is more likely that this cold weather will harm your voice. You are a singer now—you must treat your instrument properly." To her complete astonishment, he reached up and pulled off a long black cloth—a scarf, she realized. He took a few steps closer to her and wound it tightly around her neck, nearly choking her. It was thick and very warm.

"Wow," she said quietly. "Thank you."

"Do not dare to presume to walk around in the middle of the night again," the Phantom said. "You will stay indoors and get the proper amount of sleep."

She nodded, and then she looked at the ground and said, "I'm sorry. I just…" She took a shuddering, tearful breath. "I just didn't know where to go. Raoul is really mad at me right now. I didn't want to stay in his apartment, but I didn't know where to go…"

There was a short pause, and then Erik said, "You will return now. I will ensure that nothing happens to you on your journey there."

"Okay." She didn't know what else to do but obey. Feeling awkward and self-conscious about her little leftover sniffles and lack of a Kleenex, she nevertheless began walking again. Erik walked alongside her, and it was almost surreal. He towered over her, like some big black shadow, and his pace was smooth and almost elegant. She could barely hear his footsteps.

As they crossed a street, she glanced over at him, and the streetlights spilled onto them for a few moments. She caught sight of the collar of his white shirt, and she gasped yet again.

"Oh my—Erik!" she said hurriedly. "Are you okay?"

"What are you talking about?" he snapped. "Of course I am."

"There's blood on your collar," she said, trying not to panic. "And…and some on your…mask." She winced a little, hoping he wouldn't yell at her. They had never talked about his mask.

He raised a hand and wiped at it with his fingers. Then he continued to walk. "I am fine," he said stiffly.

"Are you sure?" she asked, unconvinced. "We can go to the hospital if you—"

"I am fine," he interrupted shortly. "Do not ask again."

"Oh…um, okay. Sorry. I was just worried." She felt a little hurt by his cold attitude toward her concern. However, she wasn't about to bring that up with him. If he was only concerned about her voice, then…she wouldn't take the time to care about him personally, either.

As they walked, she glanced at him again, the blood standing out against his shirt. With a little choking sensation, she realized that that was probably someone _else's _blood. He had probably just…killed someone. Christine felt her head spin a little at that, and she breathed slowly for a few minutes, trying not to scream or freak out. He had been out here because he had killed someone, and then he had seen her. Christine bit her lip, risking another glance at him. His hands were relaxed, his pace somewhat easy…he didn't look incredibly tense. Maybe the killing…relaxed him or something. She shuddered.

There was further silence until they reached Raoul's apartment complex. Christine was reluctant to go back there, but Erik was waiting for her to go inside.

"Thanks," she murmured awkwardly, punching in the key code and opening the door. "See you tomorrow, I guess."

Silence was his answer, and she slipped inside, grateful to be out of his looming presence. He always seemed so angry, and it was almost wearing. She liked to think of herself as a generally-pleasant person, even if…she wasn't able to be most of the time. Christine _wanted _to be happy, and she tried to be, but everything was making it difficult to be so.

As she climbed the few flights of stairs, she felt herself begin to perspire a little, and she tugged at the scarf around her neck before realizing that it was Erik's, and she was still wearing it. Quickly, she turned around and hurried back down, knowing he would be gone but needing to be sure.

She pushed open the door and peered out into the darkness.

"Erik?" she whispered, feeling a little silly. "Are you out here?"

There was no answer, so she went back up to Raoul's apartment. It was very late (or early), and she crept across and into the guest bedroom, sitting on the bed and clutching the black scarf in her hand. It was very warm, and while there was no label, it felt like fine, expensive material. She brushed it over a few times with her hand, feeling a little weird to be sitting there with something that was owned by the _Phantom_—and a scarf, no less. She would just give it back to him at lessons the next day. Folding it as neatly as she could and placing it atop the dresser, Christine then readied herself for bed and slept.

* * *

With a deep breath, Christine pulled open the theater doors and went inside, the scarf clutched firmly in her hand. She would be lying if she said she hadn't put it on before heading out that morning. Then she had felt stupid and had quickly pulled it off, keeping it twisted around her hand for the rest of the bus ride.

She had slept late that morning as a result of her midnight wanderings, meaning Raoul was already gone to work by the time she emerged for breakfast. It was good, as she hadn't felt ready to confront him, but bad, as she still had to…confront him. He hadn't left a note or sent her a text or anything like that, signaling that he was still probably upset. Christine was still trying to figure out what to say to him—or do to him. She wished she had someone to talk to, someone to give her advice, but Gustave was still sick in the hospital, and Erik was…not really an option.

The theater was a little chilly, and she shivered as she walked down the aisle. Curiously, the piano was absent, and she climbed up onstage and peered off into the wings.

"Erik?" she called tremulously. "Where are you?"

Just as she was about to go offstage and look, something on the stage caught her eye. It was an envelope, and she picked it up. She opened it and pulled out a small silver key along with a short note. She read it curiously, noting the untidy, inelegant scrawl:

_Christine_

_In lieu of our lesson today, you will go to the following address. Practice well and be assured that this will not happen again. Our usual lessons will recommence on Monday._

_E_

Below his bizarre _E _was an address, and she noted that it looked to be the address for an apartment as well as a string of six numbers in seemingly random order. Worry and some panic instantly flooded her. Why was she supposed to go there? What was there? She couldn't imagine anything. Did he want to teach her there? But he said in the letter that this was in place of their lesson…What was at this place?

She didn't want to go there, but Erik always knew when she didn't listen to him…And he was always angry at her for it.

Perhaps it was something there to help her voice or to improve her chances for her audition. Erik's only concern for her was for her voice, and it was highly unlikely that he would simply take a day off from giving her lessons for something that would not help her.

So, clutching the key and the small note, she left the theater.


	18. Chapter 18

The address was right downtown, and she walked and rode several buses to get there. She felt a little silly holding the scarf as she walked, and so she tentatively twined it about her neck once again. It warmed her immensely against the chilly winter day. It was very long, too; she was able to wrap it around her neck several times and still have it hang nearly to her waist.

When she got to the right address, she took a few steps back and looked up and down at the building. It housed ten floors of wealthy apartments, and she looked around in confusion, as if Erik would pop up and tell her what to do next.

Of course that didn't happen, and so she stood there stupidly for a moment before walking up and gingerly tugging on the door. It was locked. Then she noticed the keypad off to the side, similar to Raoul's apartment complex. She glanced back down at the note again and carefully, curiously, punched in the six numbers written. A green light flashed, there was a slight _ding_, and she heard the doors unlock automatically.

Christine entered the warm, good-smelling complex and went to the nearby elevators, pushing the button for the ninth floor. It zoomed up, and she continued to look around, still wondering if Erik was going to show up but knowing that he wasn't. A friendly-looking older man got in the elevator on the second floor, and they exchanged smiles. His calm, peaceful, friendly nature somehow set her at ease a little. He got off on the eighth floor, and she waved to him as he left. She in turn stepped out on the ninth.

Glancing at the paper once more, she made her way over to apartment 9B. Christine stood there for a moment, knocked tentatively on the door, and then waited, biting her lip. When no one answered, she slowly and cautiously entered the key into the lock. It unlocked smoothly, and she twisted the knob and entered into a very nice apartment.

"Hello?" she called softly. "Erik?"

There was no answer, and she looked around. There wasn't anyone in sight, and there wasn't anything that looked like it was there for a special musical purpose. It looked like a normal, comfortable, small apartment.

Then she spotted the white envelope on one of the end tables, and she hurried to it and opened it, feeling some relief as she saw Erik's untidy handwriting.

_Christine_

_This apartment is at your disposal and will be for as long as you need it. I trust you are aware that your current living situation is not exactly pleasing to me, and it is in no way assisting your progression as a musician. Your development as a singer cannot be delayed by discomfort in your personal life. Therefore you will sort out your affairs and desist your whining to me during lessons. I have left you sufficient funds to purchase any and all necessities, which you will take the time to do today and tomorrow. You shall come to me well-rested and prepared to work on Monday._

_E_

Christine gaped at the note for a moment and then looked back inside the envelope. She squealed a little as she saw several crisp hundred dollar bills, waiting for her to spend. Then she reread the note three more times, just to make sure that she had understood it correctly.

Erik wanted her to _live _in this apartment. She felt a huge wave of guilt as well as relief flood through her. It was wonderful of Erik to do this for her, but…she was already so deeply indebted to him. Could she really accept this, therefore adding thousands of more dollars onto her bill? Erik was surely keeping close track of just how much she owed him—and she didn't even want to think about the amount, let alone willingly add more to it.

Yet maybe this was just what she needed. With her relationship with Raoul as precarious as it was, it was undoubtedly good that she had a place to go. This way she wouldn't be a burden to Raoul anymore. Their relationship had thrived when they had been living at separate apartments. (When she thought of it like that, it worried her, but she was still so overwhelmed with everything else that she tucked it into the back of her mind.) Raoul would be able to have his space and privacy back, and she wouldn't have to depend solely on him. She would just have to depend…on Erik. And that thought was rather frightening.

She looked around, noting that it was fully furnished. The front room was done in soft blues and greens, and the furniture was cream-colored and looked soft. There was a wide bay window that took up nearly an entire wall, and she walked over to it, peering out. She put a hand to her heart. It was a very pretty view, and, to her shock, it was very close to the Opera House. She recognized the iconic rooftop.

She had been there once before. When she and her father had first arrived in the city, they had immediately gone to the Opera House. Gustave had gone there first—without even looking for an apartment or anything else. He had held Christine's hand tightly in one hand and his violin in the other and had entered through the front doors. Christine tried to translate for him—but her English had still been rather choppy and very accented as well. They were turned out before Gustave had even had a chance to play. The memory of it still burned her.

Turning away from the building and the bad memories, she set out to look at the rest of the apartment. It was very, very small, but she didn't mind. There was a pretty, bright kitchen with common appliances and a small wooden table in the corner, a miniscule coat closet, a tiny bathroom with the necessities, and a bedroom. Christine looked around and decided that once her father was out of the hospital, he would sleep in the bedroom and she would be perfectly happy sleeping on the comfortable-looking sofa.

For the rest of the afternoon, she looked for and discovered a grocery store. It was strange and a little fun; she had never handled so much money before. After navigating her way back to the new apartment, she tucked everything away neatly and then took the long bus ride to the hospital, playing with Erik's scarf as well as her cross necklace. She tried to think of what she would say to Raoul when she went back for her clothing. He would probably be relieved. However, he was a good man, and he might pretend to be upset and would put up a fuss over it, but, in the end, he would let her leave and silently celebrate as she did so.

When she arrived at the hospital, she entered Gustave's room and was happily surprised to see that he was awake, staring at a book, sitting up slightly.

"_Pappa!" _she said, hurrying over to him and kissing him. "I'm glad to see you're up!"

He smiled a little at her, and she saw that he still looked white and somewhat frail, but at least he was awake and talking.

"I'm glad you're here," he said. "They gave me this book to read, but I don't understand a word of it!"

She took it and glanced at the cover, setting it aside when she didn't recognize the title.

"I have such good news for you!" she said, taking his hand.

"The doctors signed for my release?" he said teasingly. He coughed a little and then winced, his mending ribs undoubtedly hurting him.

"I wish!" she said. "That would be the _happiest _news. But I only have happy news."

"Well, then tell me," he said, still smiling. Much of his hair had grown back, though it wasn't long enough to curl. She missed his curls.

"I moved into a new apartment today!" she said. "It's really nice, _Pappa_. It's right downtown, just right next to the Opera House. You'll love it when you're finally allowed to come home with me."

Instead of celebrating, he looked a little pensive. "_Prinsessa, _I don't want to spoil your good mood, but…how are you affording a new apartment? Have you gotten a job you haven't told me about?"

A hurried wave of thought rushed through her mind. There was no way she could tell him how she was _really _"affording" to live in a downtown apartment. All of the lies she had been forced to tell him hurt her, but telling him the truth would result in nothing better.

She nodded. "Just to get me by until I start singing in a month or so…"

Gustave looked somewhat relieved by the invention of this job, and they spoke quietly for a couple of hours. A nurse entered with his dinner, and he poked at it unhappily. She chided him when he told her that he was not hungry, and so he ate a few bites to please her, but most of it went away untouched.

"You have to eat everything to get your strength back!" she said, pinching his arm playfully.

"The only thing I need is to get out of this hospital," he said, trying to shift to a better position. His foot was no longer in a sling, but it was still in a heavy cast, and there were still some bandages on him.

"Soon," she promised him. "Just be patient and do everything the doctor tells you to. Please, _Pappa_."

"I would if I could understand him," Gustave said shortly. "He uses complicated words just to confuse me."

She resisted rolling her eyes at his grumpy comment, and instead she smoothed his sheets.

"How is Raoul?" Gustave then asked, sounding somewhat anxious. "Everything with him is still…good, isn't it?"

"Uh—yeah, sure," she said. "Yeah, it is, _Pappa_."

"It isn't good if he hasn't proposed to you yet," Gustave then said matter-of-factly, and Christine blushed and squeaked in embarrassment.

"_No_," she said firmly. "_Pappa_, I don't think that that's what he has in mind."

Gustave leaned back onto his pillows and closed his eyes with a tired sigh. "I may need to have a talk with him soon. If he is not going to marry you, he is giving up an _ängel_."

"No—_Pappa_, please don't. Everything's fine." Marriage was undoubtedly the last thing on Raoul's mind concerning her. Having Gustave lecture him about it was a mortifying thought.

She left soon after, as it was dark and she still needed to collect her things from Raoul's apartment. She felt her nerves flutter and jump the entire way, and she ran through several scenarios in her head and what she would say in each. The most important thing, she told herself, was to be calm and apologetic.

He was watching a game when she walked in, sprawled out on the couch and looking incredibly attractive. If it had been a month ago, she probably would have gone straight over and cuddled with him. However, she merely closed the door quietly and stood around awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed.

"How's your dad?" he then called by way of greeting.

"Fine," she said. She stood by the door, nervously shifting her weight and pulling at Erik's scarf.

The television erupted in a blast of noise, and Raoul sat up quickly and shouted 'Foul!' at the screen repeatedly. Then he rubbed his face and slumped back down.

"Um…" she then said by way of announcing her intention to speak.

"I left some dinner out for you in the kitchen if you're hungry," Raoul said, waving a hand toward it.

"Thanks," she said automatically. Then she gave an angry tug to the scarf, took in a deep breath, and forced herself to say loudly, "Hey, Raoul?"

"Hmm?" he grunted, his eyes still fixed on the game. Christine huffed silently.

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure. What about?"

She counted to five, and when he hadn't turned off the television, she said, sounding a little shrill even to her own ears, "Will you turn that off and talk to me?"

He turned around at _that_. She blushed deeply. It was already not going how she wanted it to go. The last thing it needed was hysterics and tears. He clicked off the television and stood, approaching her.

"Do you want to talk about last night?" he then said. "I know we should. It was…kind of rough for both of us." He put a warm hand on her arm. "Look, I know I was kind of harsh last night, but that's how I really feel, Christine. I feel like I'm putting all this work into our relationship, and it's just…one-sided. Like I said before, I'm not trying to pressure you into anything you're not comfortable with, but maybe if you just…I don't know, let me take you out once in a while or _something_. Know what I'm saying?"

She nodded immediately, staring up at him. What he was saying was suddenly sounding incredibly reasonable to her, and she almost allowed herself to be swayed by the idea of staying there. But then she reminded herself of just how guilty she felt by allowing him to provide _everything _for her.

"I'm leaving," she blurted, and then she felt a blush light up her cheeks.

"What?" He sounded worried and a little panicked. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean…I have an apartment now. I came back for my clothes and to tell you…um, thank you for letting me stay here for a couple of weeks while I sorted everything out." She was not doing a good job. She had thrown herself off by blabbing out a stupid 'I'm leaving' instead of using one of the many segues she had mentally rehearsed.

"I…I don't get it," Raoul said. "I thought the whole point of your living here was so you didn't have to worry about paying for an apartment. And where—and _why? _Christine?"

"I just don't…" She took another deep breath. "Raoul, I just don't think that this whole living together was working out well. I'm so sorry."

He was silent for a long while. Then he said softly, "Is this moving out also a breakup?"

She had debated on that as well, and she had come to a conclusion: "Not unless you want it to be."

"No," he said instantly, some tension leaving his features. "I mean, I don't want to break up with you. But…Christine, are you sure? I mean, yeah, I know it's been kind of rough these past few weeks, but it's only natural, what with your dad and stuff. Are you sure you just want to…you know, give up on it all? We've been dating for a while. It's natural for us to grow out of that…initial honeymoon phase. But this is where we should work together to make it work out. Don't you want to?"

"Raoul, you know that I didn't feel good about living with you anyway," she said softly, trying hard not to stare at the floor while she spoke. "It isn't—it's not right. At least I don't think it is. And I can't have you work hard and pay for everything for me. That's not right either."

"It's about the money issue?" he said. "Christine, you know that I don't care about that at all! I really like having you here! I've never cared about paying for any of your stuff. And I have that extra bedroom that just basically goes to waste, and…Please don't tell me that this is about money, because that's ridiculous. You _know _I don't care. And if you didn't know, you do now."

He was making her feel bad about moving out, and that was the last thing she had expected. She tugged at the scarf around her neck, pulling on the dangling end, and she said,

"Raoul, you're really…you're a great guy. A perfect guy, really. I just think that I need this. Thank you so much for letting me stay here, but can't you see that an apartment of my own is better for both of us?"

"No," he said flatly, looking unhappier by the moment.

"You get your privacy back," she said, trying to name everything she could. "You can have your friends over whenever you want. And your mom can come over anytime, and you don't have to worry about the sleeping arrangements. And you can watch your games—no more nature shows or _Hello, Dolly! _to suffer through." She tried to tease, but his lips hardly twitched. "Hey." She reached out and took his hand. "Maybe you don't think this is good now, but it really is, Raoul. It's better this way."

He still looked incredibly miserable, but he nodded. "Okay," he then said. "If you say so."

As she packed her clothes into a couple of bags, he watched her from the doorframe, his hands stuck in his pockets, his mouth still pulled downward.

"I'm really going to miss you," he then said.

"Don't be so negative," she said lightly. "We've lived in separate apartments for nearly all of our relationship. It'll be fine, Raoul."

"I know, but…you know, it was nice knowing that you were here when I got back from work." She looked up at him quickly, and he shrugged. "I liked it."

When she was finished, she tried to argue with him about how to get it to her new apartment, and she conceded eventual defeat. He grabbed the bags and led the way down to his car, tossing them into the backseat when they arrived.

As they drove, he held her hand tightly, as if he was dropping her off somewhere and would never see her again. She didn't understand why he was acting this way. She had thought that he would be glad to have his apartment all to himself once again—or at least relieved that he didn't have to provide for her anymore.

"So how long have you been looking?" he asked. "How did you find your new place?"

"Um…" She thought for a few moments. "Not that long. My—my voice teacher actually found it for me."

"Your _teacher?_ Geez, this guy sounds nuts…Telling you your dad borrowed money from bad guys and then finding you some apartment..."

"It's a nice apartment for a really good price," she insisted. "And it's right by the Opera House!"

"Oh, right, of course, because you're going to sing there soon, aren't you? I guess that means that you didn't apply for any of the colleges I suggested…"

There was a pause. "Sorry," she then whispered.

"Whatever." He shrugged lightly. "It's your life."

He was being mean to her, and she was hurt and a little more than shocked. He had never treated her this way. Even if he really was upset that she was leaving, why would he be _mean _to her like this? If he was doing it to make her feel bad, then it was working.

As they rode the elevator to the ninth floor, Raoul said, "You know what this means, right?"

She shook her head.

"It means that you have to spend time with me now—more dinner dates and movie nights. Okay?"

"Uh…okay," she said carefully, afraid that he would say something mean if she didn't reply.

He put the bags in her room once they were inside, and then he looked around.

"It's small," he commented. "But it's nice, I guess. How're you going to fit your dad once he's out of the hospital?"

"I'm still working that out," she admitted with a little laugh. "But it'll be fine, I'm sure."

"Yeah, you two have a good enough relationship that this tiny space will be fine. Now if it was me and my mom…I'd go crazy." He laughed a little as well, and she allowed herself to smile, hoping that his usual good mood was returning.

Thankfully, they ended the night with a long, warm hug and a kiss, and he promised to call her the next night to see how she was settling in. She shut and locked the door and turned around with a long sigh, still feeling a little unable to process all that had happened. That morning she hadn't even known of this apartment's existence, and now it was all hers. Even if it meant more money she owed to Erik, it still felt a little good to no longer be a burden to Raoul. And she was auditioning soon, which meant that she would finally be bringing in some kind of income. She could work on paying Erik back as well as managing hospital bills. Things seemed slightly better than before.

When Monday arrived, Christine went to the theater for her lesson, trying to control a blush that was already spreading. She felt stupid before the time had even arrived, and she considered throwing it away before Erik saw.

However, she merely held it tightly in her hands and walked down the aisle, climbing onto the stage carefully. As she watched Erik, it appeared that he was composing. He would play a short phrase, pause, and then scribble something onto some staff paper.

"Are you writing something?" she asked curiously. "What is it?"

He pointedly ignored her and played a few arpeggios. After writing something else down, he set the papers aside and looked at her at last. His eyes instantly narrowed as he saw what she was holding. It was a plate of heart-shaped sugar cookies with pink frosting.

"Um—these are for you," she said, seeing his gaze. She held them out, but he made no move to take them. "I know it doesn't repay you for anything, but I just really wanted to really thank you for what you did for me this weekend. And I brought back your scarf. It's nice." She was blabbering, and she knew it. "Thanks for letting me borrow it. And thanks for the apartment. I made good use of the kitchen. Heh." She laughed nervously. "There should be more cookies, but I ate a lot of them. No! I mean—uh…Well, I ate a couple. I think they turned out pretty good. I made them from scratch, you know. And they're hearts because it's Valentine's Day today. So happy Valentine's Day. And thanks for…everything."

She ended her awful, bizarre speech with a hard blush, and she stood there holding the plate of cookies out toward him. She was sure that his eyebrows were bent in pure shock and confusion, if his eyes were anything to judge by.

When he still made no move to take the plate, she hesitantly and awkwardly set it by the bench.

"I'll just leave that there," she said. "You can take them when you leave. And here's your scarf." She set it next to the plate.

Erik watched her carefully as she stood straight and went back to the bend in the piano. She wasn't sure if her blush would ever leave her cheeks—she was mortified.

Thankfully, Erik made no comment about her cookies or her terrible monologue, instead beginning a lesson without any other comments. She worked hard to try to forget about the plate sitting by the bench, and she was pleased when she received one of her first ever compliments from Erik. She was working on one of her many fast cadenzas, and he had said "Good" (rather absentmindedly, but it was there!).

And when the lesson was over and she was leaving the theater, she glanced over her shoulder and was somehow incredibly pleased to see that Erik was gone…and so was the plate.


	19. Chapter 19

With auditions a mere month away, Christine felt her stress and anxiety rising a little bit each lesson. Erik's intense lessons were becoming grueling, and oftentimes she went back to the apartment and simply collapsed on the bed and slept.

However, for all of the flaws he still found in her voice, Erik began to reassure her in the most peculiar way.

"Stop fretting," he would snap. "Straighten up and sing like I know you can."

Erik was assured that her place as a singer in the Opera House was secure. That alone comforted her more than nearly anything. She didn't think that she could bear the shame of spending so much time and energy in these lessons and then being turned away from all that she had worked for.

She was grateful for Raoul, even though their relationship seemed to be at a standstill in a precarious position. She wasn't sure how to proceed with it, and it appeared that neither did he. Still, he was wonderful for taking her mind off of her upcoming auditions, which were looming like some ominous black storm. True to what he had said, she went out with him more often, just as they used to do before she had moved in with him. He took her to one of his friend's party once, and she actually managed to have a bit of fun for a while. Still, he took her home long before it ended, because he could tell that the noise and the heat and the dozens of hyperactive people were starting to make her feel sick. He seemed bent on ensuring her comfort.

As to her relationship with Erik (even though 'relationship' was the wrong word to use), Christine rather felt as if it had improved somewhat. There was an unspoken, silent agreement to never speak about what happened on Valentine's Day, and she took it as a good sign. Even though Erik still frightened her occasionally, it was no longer the bolt-from-the-stage type fear—more like a stand-very-still-and-apologize type fear. He was still mean, but the insults now only came when she wasn't paying attention or when she was butchering her song. He tended to be more helpful and even _somewhat_ patient when she admitted that she was struggling with something or when she asked for his help. When she worked hard, he was pleased. When she slacked, he was irritated. It made sense. She knew they would never be considered 'friends,' but she rather thought that they had an understanding of their teacher-student association.

A few times, to her astonishment, they had had short conversations about things that did not pertain to her voice and career. She remembered each one with a touch of interest and some gladness. It was comforting to think of the Phantom as a man.

One such time had been on a regular Wednesday afternoon. Christine hummed a little and stared off into the wings while Erik scribbled down some vocal exercises for her to practice, memorize, and perfect. As she was looking, something sparkled and caught her eye. She carefully stood and walked over to it, exclaiming in some surprise as she found something glittery and silky.

She went back to the piano and said, "Look what I found! It looks like something from India."

Erik glanced at it indifferently and then said, returning his gaze back to the paper, "It is a repulsive, cheap replica of a traditional Iranian headdress."

"What? Really?" She looked at it with further interest, but she resisted trying it on, remembering just _where _she had found it. "Have you been to Iran, Erik?"

"Yes," he said, playing a quick, difficult-sounding scale. Christine resisted wincing, knowing that she would probably be expected to know it by the next day.

"Wow!" she exclaimed instead. "That's awesome. What was it like?"

"Hot," he said indifferently, and he made a final notation before looking up at her. "Now put that ridiculous thing away. I will run over these exercises with you once before you are dismissed."

She obeyed, and she struggled with his scales for a few minutes before he finally let her go for the day. Raoul had made her promise to go to dinner with him, and afterward she had him drop her off at the hospital so she could visit Gustave.

"Little Lotte," he said by way of greeting, lifting a hand toward her when she entered. Hiding a worried frown, she noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. Had they given him new medication that they hadn't told her about?

"_Hej, Pappa_," she said, sitting down and taking his hand between hers. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugged his thin shoulders, trying to smile at her, but it looked more like a pained grimace. To only further her worry, he had a small coughing spell that he afterward tried to wave away.

"It's nothing," he said hoarsely, clearing his throat a few times, pain etched into his eyes. "It's a small cough, _prinsessa_, and my broken ribs aren't helping. Nothing else, I promise. Tell me about your lessons."

She said, "They're amazing. My audition is so soon, and I can't wait to start. I've been making so much progress. You wouldn't even recognize my voice if you heard me sing now!" She laughed a little and smiled. "When you're better, you can play your violin, and I'll sing for hours. We don't even have to go to the park. We can just stay home all day if we want."

Gustave's hand tightened on hers, and he released a long, tired-sounding sigh, leaning back into his pillows. She noticed how hollow his face looked, and she bit her lip. He was probably tired of all the provided hospital food. Making a mental note to ask a nurse or a doctor whether or not she could bring him some meals, she pulled out her vocal exercises to look over while Gustave rested.

Several quiet minutes later, to her complete horror, he took in a sudden, gasping breath and began to cough violently, without ceasing. His frame was shaking, and one hand tightly grasped the sheets while the other pressed over his mouth. His coughs were raw, throaty, and rasping, and Christine sat there in shock, her hands pressed against her mouth and nose. After several long, awful moments, Gustave quieted, and he sucked in a few long, deep breaths. Christine whimpered and grabbed the cup of water from the bedside table, leaning over him.

"Here," she whispered shakily. "Drink this, _Pappa._" Carefully, she pulled away his hand from his mouth, and then she squeaked in dismay. Droplets of blood splattered his palm and fingers, and Christine looked at him, noting some blood smeared on the corners of his mouth.

"_Pappa!_" she said, and then she completely panicked. She hurriedly set the water back down, but she set it down with so much force that the cup tipped and water spilled, completely drenching the vocal exercises that had tumbled to the floor when she had stood. "Nurse!" Christine shouted in a strangled voice. She dashed from the room and ran to the nearest desk station. "Nurse!" she gasped. "Please—please, my father!"

A short blonde nurse hurried back with her, and Christine watched anxiously, tearfully, as the nurse looked at the machines by Gustave's bed and then examined the droplets of blood. After looking carefully at the chart, the nurse looked at Christine.

"I'm going to go get the doctor," the nurse said. "I'll be back in a minute."

Christine nodded quickly, almost hysterically, and she went over and used the provided tissues to wipe away the blood as best she could.

"_Pappa_," she said urgently. "What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong!"

He took in several panting breaths, his hand frantically rubbing at the vicinity near his heart.

"My chest," he said, his eyes closed and his brow furrowing in pain. "Lotte…Christine."

"The doctor's coming," she said, trying to sound as calm as she could, which wasn't that calm. "He's coming, and he'll make your pain go away."

Gustave continued to breathe heavily, his hand still pulling at his chest, and his mouth was drawn inward in an apparent attempt to keep from crying out in pain. Christine felt tears stinging the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, holding Gustave's hand tightly.

A few minutes later, a stocky, middle-aged doctor hurried in, the blonde nurse in tow.

"Good evening," he said to Christine pleasantly, walking over to Gustave's bedside. Christine stepped back immediately, and the doctor pulled out the chart. "Now, Mr. Dye-ee, what seems to be the problem?"

Knowing that Gustave's language skills were not going to be at their best, Christine said quickly, "He said that his chest is hurting him—he coughed out blood! What's wrong with him?"

The doctor frowned. "The chest pain could just be movement while his ribs are mending…but it doesn't explain the blood, unless he's somehow punctured a lung. Yet that's unlikely as well." The doctor turned back to Christine. "We're going to take him in for some tests and X-rays and see if we can't figure out what's happening. It could take a while."

"I'll wait," Christine said immediately. "Just…please let me know as soon as you find anything."

The doctor nodded, and Christine went out into a waiting room, wringing her hands and pulling on her curls in hysterics. She paced and chewed on her lip and rubbed her eyes, still trying to control her tears. After some time, she released a heavy, frantic sigh and pulled out her phone.

Raoul answered with a cheerful, "_Hey!_"

"Hi," she whispered. "Hey—I'm at the hospital. Something's come up."

There was a pause. "_Oh, no_," Raoul said. "_What's wrong_?"

"My dad coughed out blood," Christine said, her voice cracking horribly. "He's getting tests and X-rays right now…It was so horrible, Raoul. He said his chest hurt, and…"

"_I'll be down as soon as I can_."

It was the answer she had wanted to hear but didn't want to ask for. She sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, her head pressed into one hand while the other one played with her cross necklace. Horrible thoughts were running through her mind, and she sniffled and hiccoughed on unshed tears that she was trying to control. Even though things hadn't been perfect lately, they had been better than before—but as soon as things were better, something horrible came along. It seemed like that was the pattern of her life. Things were perfect for five years, and then her mother died…Then they moved away from Sweden, and then they moved to America, and now…all of this. Her life seemed to be one huge trial after another.

Raoul arrived just a few minutes before someone came to fetch her. Taking her hand firmly, Raoul led her through the hallways and toward an office, in which sat the doctor. Christine shuddered a little at the grim look on the doctor's features.

After they sat in the proffered chairs, there was a long moment of silence. Then the doctor sighed a little and rubbed the bridge of his nose, saying,

"We did some X-rays and tests, and I'm sorry to have to say this, but it appears that your father's developed a really bad case of tuberculosis."

Christine's breath disappeared from her lungs. Raoul's hand tightened on hers. "What?" she croaked.

"What are you talking about?" Raoul demanded angrily. "No one gets tuberculosis anymore!"

The doctor smiled facetiously. "You'd be surprised," he said gently. "Thankfully, it can be cured with antibiotics, but it takes several months of steady medication, and it can always come back."

"This is ridiculous," Raoul snapped. "He's been in here for nearly _two months_, and you're just _now _catching onto this? Isn't this supposed to be a hospital?"

Holding up his hands in a gesture of a plea for patience, the doctor said, "I can understand your frustration, but Mr. Dye-ee has never complained about any pains before. We can't help patients if they don't tell us something's bothering them."

"It's because he _can't _complain," Christine whispered, her hand shakily held over her mouth. "His English isn't that great. He wouldn't know what to say…"

"He's responsive to our questions," the doctor said. "He answers the nurses or myself when we ask whether he is in pain or if anything is bothering him."

"He doesn't know what he's saying!" Christine cried suddenly. "He doesn't understand!"

"I'm sorry about this," the doctor said. "It's possible that he thought the pain in his chest was his mending ribs so he didn't tell you about it. Maybe he hadn't felt anything before this evening. All we know is that the tuberculosis is pretty advanced, and we need to start putting him on medication straight away. Tuberculosis is also contagious, so it's possible that you two are infected as well. We'd like to test you to make sure."

"This is completely unprofessional," Raoul said heatedly. "I can't believe that you didn't catch this sooner!"

"I'm very sorry," the doctor repeated calmly. "The circumstances are unusual, and Mr. Dye-ee never said anything to us. The important thing is we know it now, and we'll do our best to treat him."

A long while later, after being tested and told their results would come in soon, Raoul drove her home, ranting all the way.

"It's ridiculous!" he said, smashing his hand into the steering wheel. "I mean, it's a _hospital! _They just let things like tuberculosis—which is a disease that _should _be controlled by modern medicine—go around and develop in their patients! Shouldn't they have tested him for it straight away? I mean, it's a poke in the arm! It's not some big thing! I swear, Christine, you should sue them for malpractice. It's unbelievable."

Christine was silent, leaning back into the leather seat, breathing deeply. The doctor had told her that the medicine wouldn't kick in for another two weeks, and until then Gustave was still contagious, meaning that it was in her best interest to stay away from him for fourteen days. She had had a hard time stomaching that—and added to the fact that Gustave was alone and sick in a place full of people he didn't understand…She swallowed oncoming sobs. All she wanted to do was curl up in a bed and never emerge.

Raoul released an angry sigh and rubbed his face. Then he reached over a put a hand on her knee. "I'm sure everything will be fine," he said. "It's not a virus, so they can kill it with medicine. Okay? In a few weeks he'll be fine again. And I'm here for whatever you need. Just let me know."

She nodded, and she was grateful when he dropped her off at her apartment. Without even kissing him goodbye, she ran into her building and made her way up to the ninth floor. The city looked very pretty from her window, and she looked at the Opera House for a while. Was it all worth it? Was all the pain and suffering worth that end goal?

Christine gasped on some whimpering sobs, and she curled up in her bed, staring at the wall until a fitful sleep claimed her.

The next morning, she entered the theater with red-rimmed eyes, trying hard to control herself. Horrible nightmares had kept her tossing and turning throughout the night, and her eyes were sore and tired.

Erik was playing something that was very fast and sounded incredibly technical and difficult. His hands smashed onto the keys to create loud, staccato chords, and his foot jumped up and down on the pedal. Christine watched him, somehow finding herself somewhat calmed by his intense concentration and the music that was ringing around the old theater. After the piece ended, he took in a visible breath and then reached up to smooth back his dark hair. Christine momentarily noted the profile of his mask, and she wondered if he would ever take it off in front of her. They had never discussed it. She knew that he would probably burst into a tirade against her and say that she was stupid and had absolutely no right to pry. However, they were spending so much time together, and if he thought that she was still going to turn her into the police…he was wrong. Christine knew that she could never excuse what he did, but he had brought her father back to her. He was training her to become a star. He had…provided for her. Erik was nowhere near to being a good man, but Christine had no desire to have him in jail. And once he knew that, maybe he would consider removing his mask in her presence. It was probably hot and uncomfortable.

After another moment, she climbed onstage, still aware of how inelegant she was. Then she went over to the bend, and Erik peered up at her from the bench. To her surprise, he heaved a sigh and rubbed his hairline, right where the mask ended.

"You have been crying," he stated, tiredness tingeing his tone. "What could have possibly upset you this time?"

"It's my dad," she whispered, rubbing at her eyes in an attempt to get the aching to go away. "He's sick. They told me that he has tuberculosis."

"Tuberculosis is easily cured with antibiotics," Erik said.

"That's what the doctor said," Christine said, sniffling a little. "It's just…kind of disheartening, you know? He spends such a long time in the hospital to get better, and then this. And he's going to be all alone for two weeks. His English was never that great, and it only got worse when he was…gone, so he has a hard time understanding anyone. I just wish…I just want him to get well. I hate that hospital."

She was embarrassed after she stopped speaking. Erik had told her many times that he only cared about her voice—and there she was, confessing things to him that she hadn't even said to Raoul.

Erik was silent for a moment, and then he said, "That is understandable, I am sure. Now. Your exercises. You will start on C major and proceed up the scale chromatically."

She didn't expect anything more, and so the lesson began without any other comments. Surprisingly, she felt herself begin to feel marginally better as she sang. Maybe Erik knew that comforting words wouldn't do anything for her except make her feel sorry about herself. Perhaps he was aware that hard work and music could help her.

Or maybe he was just annoyed with all the talk and simply wanted to work on her voice and auditions.

Still, by the time the lesson was over, her tears were gone, and she managed to hold a conversation with Erik that did not involve confessions of feelings or tearful sniffling.

"Now, for your audition itself," Erik said, straightening his pile of music neatly. "What are you planning to dress yourself in?"

"Oh," she said, somewhat thrown. "I haven't really thought about it…Um…Maybe this blue dress I have…and my black heels…?" She ended it in a question and looked at him for approval.

The visible portion of his mouth and chin gave her her answer—_no_.

"I will have something for you tomorrow," Erik said, his tone making no room for argument. "Tell me your dress and shoe size, my dear."

She started a little at 'my dear,' though she resisted thinking on it too much. It was Erik—he probably said it to mock her. And as usual, Christine attempted to protest, a little ashamed that he even had to pick out her audition outfit. "No, Erik—you shouldn't have to—"

"Tell me," he interrupted shortly.

Blushing a little, she gave him the required information, and he dismissed her. As she wasn't allowed to see her father, she spent an evening in her little apartment, sitting in the bay window and staring out over the Opera House. Raoul texted her, but she the last thing she wanted to do was get up and be around strangers for the evening. She feigned exhaustion and replied that she didn't want to go out that evening. Instead she made herself hot tea and read a few chapters of a novel before falling asleep.

When she returned to the theater for lessons the next day, she was nervous and somewhat excited to see that Erik had a garment bag and a shoe box waiting for her. She _was _a girl, and she did enjoy pretty dresses…even if she never had the opportunity to own or wear any.

"There is a dressing room off the side of the left wing," Erik said. "You will put these on."

Christine nodded and carefully picked up the clothing before going off into the wings. She looked around curiously, never having been this far backstage. There were some large set pieces leaning against the wall, several things covered in sheets, and a few chairs and stools sitting around. With little trouble, she located the dressing room and walked in, immediately overwhelmed by the stink of musky perfume. She coughed and gagged for a minute, reaching around for the light switch.

It was a long, thin room with a mirror that ran the entire length of the wall. A long table had been built into it as well, and it was covered in loose articles of clothing and toiletries—hairbrushes, toothbrushes, old tubes of lipstick, empty perfume bottles, discarded hair clips and pins, and a few plastic water bottles. Carefully, she hung up the dress bag on one of the provided hooks and unzipped it, squealing in delight and shock when the glare of red met her eyes. The dress was smooth and soft under her hands, and she hurriedly pulled it off the hanger, anxious to try it on.

The dress slid over her frame easily, and it fit her well. Christine inspected herself in the brightly-lit mirror, turning a few times so she could see herself from all angles.

Her reflection was somewhat pale, and her eyes were wide. Gustave had often said she had eyes like her mother. The red dress she was wearing gave shape and form to her frame, and for one of the first times she realized that she was a _woman_. Of course she had always known that she was female, but it was one of the first times she looked at and acknowledged the curve of her breasts, the bending at her waist and then the expansion at her hips. It was one of the first times that her shape wasn't hidden behind ill-fitting, second-hand, ugly, faded clothes. This realization was somewhat startling. She ran her hands down her waist and over her hips a few times, feeling the material slide beneath her fingers.

Christine then opened the shoe box, looking at the sensible nude flats and feeling a little disappointed. However, she grudgingly acknowledged the wisdom behind this choice. It was clear that there was no desire for attention to be drawn to her feet by anything. In the box was also a small tube of lipstick, and Christine picked it up and twisted it open. Using the mirror as a guide, she carefully applied some, noting that it matched perfectly with her dress.

Then, pulling on her dress a few more times, she exited the dressing room and went back to the stage. She tugged at her hair, wishing that she had done something with it instead of leaving it wild and frizzy, but there was nothing to be done about it, and so she pushed it behind her shoulders and hoped for the best.

Erik was playing something, and she walked closer to the piano, feeling inexplicably…_shy_.

She cleared her throat softly, and Erik glanced up at her. To her shock (and faint pleasure), he did a somewhat bizarre-looking double take, as if he had convinced himself that she was not worth looking at twice but still looked anyway. His yellowish eyes swept her up and down, and it was the first time that such a look didn't make her feel objectified and embarrassed. Instead, she felt…flattered.

"It's a really pretty dress," she said quietly, swiveling her hips back and forth a little so that the hem swished around her knees. "What do you think?"

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "Perfect."

She blushed.


	20. Chapter 20

Every time she looked at the garment bag hanging in her bedroom, Christine repeated that word in her head to herself. _Perfect_. Those half-whispered two syllables were branded into her memory, and she sometimes liked to wonder just what Erik meant. Of course he meant that the dress fit her perfectly, but still…It was distracting to think of other things he could have meant.

Playing with her cross necklace, Christine sang softly to herself and returned to the kitchen to ensure that dinner wasn't burning. Raoul was coming over, and she was hoping to have a nice evening with him to make up for being so scarce the past week or so. She hadn't had any energy or motivation to go out to a public place, instead opting to curl up in a blanket and read with music playing softly in the background. For a few nights, she had attempted to read her Swedish fairytale book, but her throat had closed and her eyes had filled with tears, and she had put the book away hurriedly, unable to read it anyway with her eyes so clouded.

As she stirred her sauce, her eyes lingered on the envelope that she had put on the counter. It was a hospital bill, and she was too frightened to open it. It had been sitting on her countertop for three days, and she knew that she would soon have to gather her courage and pull out the devastating amount. Thinking, she grabbed it and slid it into a drawer and out of sight. The last thing she wanted was for Raoul to find it and then question her about how she was managing. She didn't even know that herself.

Still singing to herself, she double-checked the things in the oven and the pots on the stove, and as she was setting out plates there was a knock on the door.

Raoul smiled at her when she opened it, and he stepped in, giving her a quick kiss.

"How're things?" he said. "It smells good in here."

She managed to laugh a little, and he pulled off his coat.

"I forgot how small this apartment is," he said, looking around. "Still, it has a nice view. The Opera House looks really great from here. It's nice that you're so close to it. When is your try-out again?"

"Three weeks," she said, trying not to sound too nervous. "And it's called an audition, silly."

He shrugged. "Same thing. How's your dad?"

Christine bit her lip as she put dishes onto the small dining table. "I don't know. The doctor called me this afternoon. He wants me to come in tomorrow morning. I'm worried…"

"I'm sure it's nothing," Raoul said. "You shouldn't worry."

"I know, but I do," she said. "I mean, it's my dad…If something happened…"

"I'd be here," Raoul said gently, reaching out to take her hand. "You know that, right?"

Christine nodded silently. Then the moment of silence stretched out too long, and she cleared her throat and said, "Let's eat. I'm starving."

For several minutes, there was only the gentle clink of cutlery and the murmured general table phrases, such as 'please pass the salt' and 'do you want more?' Just as she was about to ask how work was, she was cut off by the shrill ringing of his phone. Raoul gave her an apologetic look and pulled it out before looking at the screen and sighing forcefully.

"It's my mom," he said, some unhappiness in his tone. He tapped on it and held it up to his ear. "Hey, Mom," he said. Christine busied herself with her dinner, trying not to appear like she was listening, but…she was. It was hard not to listen.

"No," he said. "I'm just eating dinner with Christine…_No_, Mom…I don't know." Raoul stood, pressed his hand over the mouthpiece, and mouthed _Sorry _to Christine before walking away from the table to continue talking. Christine strained to hear what he was saying, but he had gone into the bedroom and had closed to the door, so she returned to her meal.

As she ate, she briefly caught herself wondering what Erik was doing.

_Probably…killing someone_, she thought, giving herself the chills. The idea that she took voice lessons from a murderer was…somewhat unsettling, especially considering all that had transpired between them. They were not close, and she knew that they never would be, but she oftentimes found herself subconsciously thinking that Erik was not a bad man—yet she knew he was. He was a very bad man. However, it was getting harder putting the murderer and the virtuoso together. She didn't like thinking that her teacher was also the Phantom who was paid to kill people. That blood money had probably paid for this apartment—the food in her mouth…

She suddenly found that her appetite was gone, and she poked at her food until Raoul returned. There was a slight frown on his mouth.

"Sorry," he said, sitting down. "She's been harping on me to go up and visit my family for a while. She wants me to come up for Easter."

"Why don't you go?" she half-asked, half-suggested. "What's wrong with that?"

"I don't know," he said. "I just…it's all the way upstate. And I don't know if I can get work off."

She knew that he was lying about the second part. Raoul had weekends off.

"A weekend with your family would probably be good," she said. She wanted to add something about him spending time with family because he _had _a large family and shouldn't take it for granted, but she kept her mouth shut.

"Yeah, maybe," he said, shrugging again. He paused and then said carefully, casually, "You should come with me if I go, though."

"What?"

"It would be just for a weekend," he said. "We'd just drive upstate, and you can meet my family. You've only met my parents, right? You could meet my brother and sisters. Oh, and my nieces and nephews would probably be there. Anyway, they have a really big house. There would be plenty of room for us."

She remembered the last time he tried to get her to take a trip with him. It had ended in a big fight and her moving out. And Raoul said that it took _two _people to make a relationship work. She knew she was bad at that aspect. Raoul was always with her at the hospital, sitting around with her and watching Gustave sleep when she knew that he could be out with friends or doing something else. She felt guilt creep up in her stomach, and she took her time chewing and swallowing before saying,

"We'll just have to see what's going on with my dad and my singing and stuff."

"I'm sure a weekend won't kill anyone," Raoul said, though he looked happier by her half-commitment. "It's just for a couple of days. How long has it been since you've had a break?"

She echoed his shrug. In all honesty, she hadn't ever been out of the city since she had moved to it. The farthest she had gone was to a farm a few miles out of town for a trip for her high school.

"So I saw that red dress in your room," Raoul then said, looking at her. "Got a hot date with your secret boyfriend that you haven't told me about?"

Christine actually laughed a little at the thought. "Of course not. Don't be stupid. It's my audition dress."

"Really?" He looked a little skeptical. "I never pegged you as a red dress type."

"Yeah, me neither," she said truthfully. "My teacher picked it out for me."

She regretted saying that as soon as it came out, for Raoul's eyebrows jumped up and then down.

"Wow," he said. "Should I be jealous of this teacher? I mean he's told you crazy things about your dad, helped you find a place to live, and now he picked out a sexy red dress for you to sing in. You do spend more time with him than me, you know…"

"Ha, no," she said shortly, completely serious. "There is no reason on earth why you should even think about being jealous of him. He's a little kooky, honestly, and I'm pretty sure he's a lot older than me."

"You do go for older men," Raoul said, grinning a little.

"Not _that _old," she replied. "But seriously, Raoul. You don't really think that…do you?"

"No, of course not," he said. "I was just teasing."

"Good," she said. And she was able to return his smile.

* * *

When Christine walked into the theater the next day, she felt as if she would never be able to smile again. Her heart was heavy, and her hands were shaking. She wanted to run away and never come back. She didn't care where she went, but she never wanted to return.

Erik was angry when she walked in. "I believe you are familiar with my views on the subject of tardiness," he snapped at her.

Christine silently climbed up onto the stage and walked over to the piano bend. She looked at him and felt her eyes fill with tears.

"I talked to the doctor this morning," she said thickly. "He said—he said…" The words were ringing in her head, but she couldn't speak them out loud. It was as if they weren't true if she didn't say them.

But she knew that they were, and so she burst, "He said there's nothing to be done for my dad. He said that my dad has a…has a _resistant _strain or something…The medicine won't work."

Erik looked at her and then said, "I have heard of such a thing occurring more often. Very interesting."

She looked at him in shock, and he looked back with a blank stare and a straight mouth.

"I didn't know what to say," she continued miserably. "I just…I didn't even _cry_, not even when they let me see him for a few minutes."

"They allowed you to become exposed to him?" Erik then said, his voice beginning to rise.

"They put gloves and one of those hygienic masks on me," Christine said. "It was…Erik, it was so awful. He was just lying there, and he looked so sick. And do you know what he said to me? He said that he was—he was _glad_, because this meant that he could be with my mom again!" She burst into angry tears at last, and she stood there and sobbed, rubbing at her eyes. "How could he s-say something like that?" she wailed. "Does he th-think that it's okay if he leaves m-me? And I couldn't even say anything! I just s-stood there! How can he do th-this to me?!" She sank down to the stage and bawled, her face buried in her knees, all of the hurt and anger and terror and frustration pouring out. She was too miserable to be embarrassed and too beaten to feel any shreds of dignity that would normally prevent her from wiping her nose and tears on her sleeve.

After a moment, she felt something by her head, and she glanced up to see that Erik was silently holding out what appeared to be a handkerchief. She took it and resumed sobbing, though she used his offered handkerchief instead of her sleeve.

Christine didn't know how long she sat there and cried, but it was long enough to make her entire frame sore from sitting on the hard stage. When she cried herself out, she coughed and choked on whimpering hiccoughs and shuddering little cries. The last thing she wanted to do was get up and sing—or, even worse, make the trip back to her apartment. Christine leaned over and laid down on the stage with a heavy sigh, using her arm as a pillow. She curled up and continued to wipe at her nose and eyes.

Erik had not said anything during her entire breakdown. He had not said words of comfort or given empty promises. He hadn't even touched her in an attempt to console. He had handed her the handkerchief so he wouldn't have to see her wiping fluids onto her clothing. She looked up with aching eyes and saw his shoes and thin legs underneath the piano, resting lightly on the damper pedal. He was still there, and she felt a glimmer of gratitude that he had not gotten up and left.

Yawning widely, she let her eyes drop close, and when Erik began to softly play something, she dropped off to sleep instantly. Her dreams were full of her mother, something that hadn't happened since she was a girl living in Paris. She could barely remember her, but Christine knew that she had been a beautiful woman. Christine remembered a subtle, flowery scent, a bell-like laugh, and pretty, delicate hands. Gustave had told her many things about her mother, but Christine could hardly recall anything from her own memory. It seemed that it had only been Gustave and her for her entire life. And yet, even then…she could sense that yearning in Gustave whenever his wife was mentioned. Even with Christine, Gustave had wanted someone else—someone long dead. The past fifteen years had been his attempts to escape her, but she still haunted him, and he still could not let her go. Christine had known this all along, and yet it was too awful to even think about. Gustave loved her—_adored _her, of course…but Christine knew. She knew. Her mother had always overshadowed her, always put a fog over her _Pappa's _eyes when he looked at her. He ached for her, and he was glad to be going back to her—glad to be leaving Christine alone at last.

She woke with a little gasp, and her eyes flew open. For a moment, she stared out into the dimness, and she blinked to try to get a sense of where she was and what was happening.

There was a pressure on her, and she looked down to realize that something black had been spread over her. Shifting a little, she realized that it was a coat. It was warm and surprisingly-heavy, and as she was curled up, it covered her from neck to toe.

The stage seemed to press up into her, and she rolled over with an uncomfortable groan, feeling pain shooting through her. Her eyes were heavy, and her nose was raw. Her head was throbbing. She felt completely miserable.

"It is best you leave now, my dear."

Christine turned her head so quickly that she felt her neck crick in protest. She rubbed it with a sore arm and peered up through the gathering darkness. Erik was sitting at the piano bench, looking down at her, his white Oxford clearly distinguishable in the dim theater—like a beacon.

"It is late, and I am sure that we will soon be joined by others in the theater."

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, resisting the urge to give another groan. The coat slid into her lap, and she gingerly grabbed it before forcing herself to stand. Her head swam, and she felt her vision blur a little as her body readjusted itself to the sudden change. Then she rubbed her forehead with her free hand and held the coat out to Erik.

"Thank you," she whispered hoarsely.

"It is of no concern," he said curtly. "The last thing I need is for my student to be stricken down with the flu."

Suddenly feeling very cold with the absence of the coat, Christine stood awkwardly for a moment before nodding once and stumbling off the stage and into the quickly-drawing night. She wrapped her arms around herself and walked to the nearby bus station. A long, hot bath sounded like pure heaven.

It was too late in the season to snow, but it was too early to be considered spring, and the city was gray and gloomy. She rode the bus in silent dejection, staring out of the window, fully aware of her puffy eyes and red nose. What did it matter what she looked like? Gustave was not going to get well. The doctor had told her that. None of the medicine they were using was working.

When she was at last in her apartment, she pulled off her shoes and coat, dropping them in the front room and walking straight to the bathroom. She turned on the faucet, steam quickly filling up the room, and as she pulled off her clothes and tossed them into a corner, she felt the chill of the room with the heat of the steam meeting her bare skin.

As she sat in the hot bathwater, she leaned her head against the porcelain rim of the tub and closed her eyes.

Gustave had been everything to her for her entire life. Everything she ever did was for him, to make him proud of her. He had looked so frail and weak, lying on that hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines. His face was pale, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. She had simply stared at him, unable to even rush over and embrace him. Was that how he felt when her mother had died? Unable to help her fight the illness destroying her body, simply forced to stand by and watch as she died in front of him…

But Gustave had had _Christine _afterward! Christine would have…no one. Didn't he realize that? He had to! He had to realize that he couldn't die, because that would mean that she would be left alone, and no one would be there to protect her read her stories…hold her hand…check for trolls in her closet…

As she sat there, she heard her phone begin to ring, and she looked over at her pair of discarded jeans, knowing that her phone was in the pocket. Raoul was calling her, because who else would? Feeling no desire to move, she instead sank deeper into the hot bathwater and closed her eyes once again, letting the voicemail pick up the call.

After the water cooled, she got out and wrapped herself up in warm pajamas, going into the kitchen to make herself weak tea. While waiting for the kettle to boil, she looked over to a drawer and remembered that she had slid a hospital bill in it. Sniffling and aware that nothing else could ruin her day more than it already was, she opened the drawer, intent on opening the bill and crying at the amount.

To her shock, there was no envelope. She looked in every other drawer and even in the cupboards, feeling a little frantic that it had disappeared.

The kettle was shrieking, and she pulled it off the stovetop before heading back to the bathroom for her phone.

She listened to Raoul's voicemail: "_Hey, Christine. It's me. I was just calling to talk. Didn't you have to talk to the doctor this morning? What did he say? I hope it was good. Listen, sorry I didn't call you earlier. Work was awful today. Remember Margery White? That fish woman? Well, she got fired a couple weeks ago, and now she thinks it's okay to sue the whole company for sexual discrimination. That's just stupid, because I've only asked her to make me a sandwich a couple times. Heh." _He laughed a little at his own silly joke, and Christine managed a watery smile at his good humor. "_Just a joke, by the way, she's never made me a sandwich. Anyway, the lawsuit will never go through, so it's fine, but it's just a lot of paperwork. So…yeah. That was my story for the day. Call me back, okay? Miss you. Bye."_

There was a beep to signal the end of the message, and she released a little shuddering sigh before dialing the hospital's number, biting her lip and returning to the kitchen to sit down at the table. She was exhausted.

After being transferred a few times, she finally said into the phone, "Hi…I'm just calling to check up on my dad. His name is Gustave Daae."

There was a slight shuffling of papers, and then the woman at the other end said, "_He had a high fever several hours ago, though he is now at a normal temperature. The doctor has switched his medication, and we're hoping to see results in a few days_."

"Okay, great," Christine whispered, pressing her hand to her forehead and staring at the wooden table. "Also…um, I need a bill sent to me again, if that's okay. I…misplaced it, I guess."

The woman sighed a little, and then Christine was transferred through several more people before connecting with a tired-sounding man.

"_Miss Dye, I understand that you have a question concerning your latest hospital bill_," the man said, and Christine could hear a slow, languid _clack _of the man typing something on a keyboard.

"Yeah," she said. "I need the bill resent, if…if that's possible."

"_Of course it's possible, but why would you need it?_" the man said. "_According to my records, the bill has been paid in full_."

"What?" She rubbed her eyes and squinted through the brightly-lit kitchen. "What do you mean?"

"_The bill has been paid and everything went through with the bank and with your insurance_," the man repeated. "_Do you still want the bill re-sent? Maybe for your personal records?_"

"Oh—um, no thanks," she said, completely confused. "Sorry about…the call, then."

"_It's no problem_," the man said slowly, and she could hear a barely-suppressed yawn in his voice. "_Have a good night, Miss Dye_."

She hung up and stared at the phone for several long moments before getting up to finish her tea. However, as she pulled out the required materials, she found that she didn't want it anymore, and so she put everything away and went to her bedroom, curling up in the bed and staring at the wall for a while before closing her eyes and falling asleep.


	21. Chapter 21

The morning of her audition dawned, and she hurried to the downtown theater, her dress, makeup, and shoes tucked away carefully and held in her arms. Erik had insisted on warming her up before her audition, and she was grateful.

It was a chilly, completely clear March day, and Christine could see the hopefulness on people's faces as they anticipated the arrival of spring. Normally the excitement of warmer weather would have made her as hopeful as anyone else, but her father was still in the hospital, and he was worse than ever before.

Although she didn't want to say it aloud to anyone, she had a horrible sense that he was…hanging on…only for her auditions. After he knew that she was successful, he would…

Christine shook her head quickly and rubbed her eyes. She could not think like that, especially today. Any depression or sadness would only serve to weaken her voice, and she could not afford that. It seemed like everything rested on this audition.

She took out her phone and saw that Raoul had texted her a good luck message, and she tucked the phone away after replying with a quick '_Thanks!'_ She had at last told Raoul about her father's condition, and Raoul had been so outraged that he tried to get her to sue the hospital. But…Christine didn't think she could handle that. She was already so overwhelmed, and the last thing she needed was something as huge as a lawsuit against a major hospital. Maybe Raoul thought that he was helping by trying to get her to direct her anger toward the hospital, but all it did was upset and sadden her.

As quickly as she could, she hurried into the theater, clutching her large garment bag and other miscellaneous items. Erik was lifting up the lid of the piano as she walked to the stage and set her things down so she could climb up.

He turned around while she was picking up her discarded bags, and then he demanded,

"What is that?"

"My dress and shoes," she said. "I want to make sure that I look okay before I go. Do you want me to go change now?"

"No. You will warm up first."

She laid her things down once again as neatly as she could to ensure that nothing wrinkled or broke, and then she went to the bend of the piano, nervously pushing her hair away from her face.

The warm-up was intense and extremely focused. She could feel the nerves in her belly as soon as she started her scales. Still, she knew that if she became _too_ intense then her voice would suffer as a result. Erik had told her that it was less about the technicalities and more about the feeling. Of course the technicalities were important, but when they overshadowed the passion and the drive that the music could create, the true meaning became lost. Christine closed her eyes for a while, trying to get herself to relax and feel the music coursing through her. She was doing this for Gustave…and for herself.

As she was doing rapid arpeggios, Erik praised her again with another murmured, "Good." That small compliment caused a very slight smile to touch her lips.

Finally, Erik lifted his hands away from the keys and said, "You are sufficiently warm. I am pleased that you are in good voice today."

"Thanks," she said, smiling a little and rubbing her arm nervously. Then she looked toward her garment bag. "Should I…get ready now?"

He waved one of his long hands dismissively, his eyes going back to the piano keys, and Christine scooped up her things before going over to the dressing room off the side of the left wing.

The dress fit her just as well as it did last time, and she critically examined herself in the mirror for a few minutes, pulling at any folds or creases and ensuring that everything was flowing down smoothly.

With slightly-shaking hands, she applied her makeup as carefully and precisely as she could, taking great care with the lipstick. Afterward, she stood and looked at herself, lightly touching the gold cross necklace. It didn't really match her dress, but she was unwilling to take it off. Her father was with her this way—supporting her…

When she went back to the stage, she stood slightly away from the piano and turned slowly, feeling herself blush as Erik watched.

"Does it look okay?" she asked, tucking a few curls behind her ears. "Did I miss anything? A tag? Some thread?"

He shook his head, looking disinterested. "Fine," he said. "When you arrive at the Opera House, you will be greeted by a man named Mr. Reyer. He will lead you to your audition."

Christine nodded quickly, adjusting one of the straps on her shoes.

"You will stand tall and speak clearly and calmly—but you will _not _be overbearing. Do you understand me? You will not be arrogant or domineering. And do _not, _under any circumstances, do those irritable habits you have with your hair and necklace."

"What do you mean? Oh." She understood as soon as she asked. He was referring to her habit of twirling her hair or touching her necklace when she was nervous. Erik continued as if she hadn't said anything,

"Be courteous to the men listening to you and your accompanist."

"You're not accompanying me?" she blurted stupidly. The idea of someone else playing her piece scared her. She had become too accustomed to Erik's genius technique. Listening to another accompanist was a frightening idea. However, she knew the answer before he said it. It was a stupid question.

"Of course not," he said. "I will not be accompanying you into the Opera House _or _on the piano. Erik is hardly a figure of gentility and is not suited for those…circles. No. You will go in alone. You will remember my instructions, and you will do well. I have told you before; it is not a question of whether or not you will become a member of the company—you _will_. This audition is merely a means to force them to notice you and remember you."

Christine nodded again and at her request, he accompanied her through her song once more before he told her that she needed to leave if she was to get to the Opera House on time.

"Okay," she said, glancing out to the theater doors. There was a pause, and she wondered if Erik was going to give her some type of speech to motivate her.

However, apparently she had already forgotten just what type of man Erik was, for he soon snapped,

"What are you doing? Get out of here."

Without another word, she left the theater and was soon on her way to the Opera House. She tried to keep her nerves somewhat calmed, and she distracted herself by looking out the window and watching all the people. There were so many. Every day she saw people she had never seen before, never knew existed, and yet they were human. They had struggles and trials and heartbreak, just as she did. Each person led a complex life of happiness and sadness intertwined, yet she would never know, because she probably would never see those people again. Tomorrow would be a new day, filled with new faces and new unknown, unspoken stories.

Before she even realized where she was, the bus jerked to a halt, and she looked and saw that this was her stop. The door opened, and she stood. The suddenness gave her no time to gather _all _of the courage she would have liked, and she stumbled out of the bus, tripping slightly. It was hardly the picture of elegance she wanted to maintain. After she stepped away, the bus rolled away, and her stomach lurched slightly. The following hour could ruin her...or make her wildest dreams come true. This moment, the one she had striven for, was here at last.

With shaking knees, she walked the block to the Opera House, gazing up at it in horrified fascination. It was much bigger than she remembered. It loomed over her, ready to swallow her up in its depths.

Christine entered the grand doorway once again, the mouth eating her up, perfectly willing to crush her into nothing as it had her father.

The scene behind the doors was grand and beautiful. For a moment, she simply stared, gaping at the splendor and magnificence of it all. Grand draperies, sweeping staircases, polished marble, gilded doorways…Everything was lush and shining. She was overwhelmed. It was more than she remembered. She recalled a comment made by her father on the day that he had tried to audition; the Opera House had been modeled after the older European ones, and even though the modern critics had turned up their noses, it was loved and appreciated by the performers and the patrons.

A thin, harried-looking man approached her, and she looked at him warily.

"Miss Daae?" the man said, his tone brisk and yet somehow cautiously respectful, as if he would reserve his judgment of her until after she sang. She was faintly pleased that he pronounced her last name correctly.

She nodded, afraid to speak lest her voice would crack or wear. He looked at her closely, then at her dress, and she blushed lightly. It was never something she would have picked to audition in, and yet Erik had selected it for her. He knew best…didn't he?

"Follow me," he then said, turning and walking. She obeyed silently. He led her through the grand entrance and through several rooms, each as plush as the last. Christine did not want to linger and become enthralled once again. She focused on the man's footsteps and followed them.

He then showed her into a large room, and she entered timidly, looking around. There was a large, beautiful piano—much larger and shinier than the one at the rundown theater in which she practiced. An oversized red sofa was near it, along with several hard chairs, on which two men were sitting, conversing quietly. They stopped when Christine's footfalls echoed around the room.

The man leading her—she suddenly remembered that Erik said he was Mr. Reyer, the chorus master—continued on into the room, and she stood near the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her to keep from fidgeting.

"Gentlemen, this is the girl I was talking about," Mr. Reyer said to the men, who stood. One of them was rather corpulent, and it took him a moment longer than the other. Mr. Reyer turned his head, apparently expecting to see her there, but when he saw that she lingered at the entryway, his mustache curved a little with displeasure.

"Come over here, Miss Daae," he called to her. She obeyed again, approaching the three men who were looking at her—two of them curiously and another with apparent skepticism.

Mr. Reyer spoke to her: "Miss Daae, these two gentlemen are the managers of the Opera House: Mr. Poligny and Mr. Moncharmin. They like to oversee most auditions."

The two men dipped their heads at their respective introductions. Mr. Poligny was the short rotund gentlemen with a shining head and small glasses. Mr. Moncharmin was several inches taller than she with dark silver hair and matching bushy eyebrows. He was the man eyeing her with doubt.

"Mr. Reyer has spoken highly of you, Miss Daae," Mr. Poligny said. "He insisted that you audition, and he's the expert at the chorus, so we indulge him from time to time."

Christine was not sure what he was saying. She did not know Mr. Reyer at all. Why would he insist that she audition for the Opera House? She looked at him and was somewhat startled when she saw the hard, steely gaze. He looked almost threatening.

She then realized that they were expecting her to say something, and so she opened her mouth and said quietly, "Oh."

Mr. Poligny chuckled deeply. "Shy little thing you've brought us, Mr. Reyer!" he said.

"Yes," Mr. Reyer said, once again looking stressed. "Maybe…we can go ahead with the audition?"

"Yes, let's," Mr. Moncharmin said, sitting back down. Mr. Poligny followed suit, though much more carefully. Mr. Reyer went over to the piano, and Christine suddenly realized that she hadn't brought her music with her. Erik hadn't given it to her! Feeling panicked, she hurried over to the piano and said quietly,

"Sir—Mr. Reyer—my music…!"

"It's right here, Miss Daae," Mr. Reyer replied in the same hushed voice. "Please stand over there and…sing."

Christine felt relief wash over her, followed instantly by more nerves and panic. It was time…time to sing. She impulsively ran nervous hands over the stomach of her dress. Mr. Moncharmin leaned over and whispered something into Mr. Poligny's ear, and she was certain they were speaking of her. She did not know how to react, and so she stood there silently, staring at them.

The accompaniment started behind her, and she jumped slightly. The piano was loud, ringing in her ears, unlike Erik's interpretation. He always began the beginning soft, as if asking a question, and the voice would answer. Mr. Reyer was playing it differently. Christine forced herself to close her eyes and breathe. She could not fail with this. _This _was…her. This music was her life now. When Gustave was gone, it would be all she had left.

It was difficult trying to be calm while so incredibly nervous. She thought of her dreams, of her struggles, of her sorrows and sufferings, how they had all pivoted at this moment for so long. Her father had been taken from her and then found for _this _price. He was dying.

She _would _sing. She would sing and she would sing well. She would do what Erik taught her—what he engrained in her. This song lived in her. She _was _this song. Erik had ensured perfection, and she would sing perfection.

As she sang, she did not look at the two men in front of her. They were not there. She was alone, nowhere, and she was singing. There was nothing there to harm her or help her. She was simply…there. She sang because she needed to, because she wanted to, and it was only Christine.

After she was finished, she suddenly could not remember the past five minutes. She could not remember singing the song. She could remember the panicked feeling when the introduction started, but as soon as she opened her mouth to sing, her memories disappeared.

Mr. Moncharmin and Mr. Poligny were murmuring quickly, quietly, between themselves, looking at her often. Mr. Reyer was still sitting at the piano, watching her closely. She was unsure if this was a good or bad reaction, and she tried to keep her face neutral, not wanting to show the panic that was rapidly bubbling up in her stomach.

After a moment, Mr. Moncharmin stood up, and he smiled a little at her—though it was somewhat forced. She could tell. She had seen so many forced smiles.

"You did a good job," he said, inclining his head. "We're impressed. We'll contact you in a few days about your rehearsal schedule. Thanks for your audition. You're free to go."

Mr. Poligny stood as well, and the two of them left the room. Mr. Reyer gathered the music into a thick folder, and she looked at him for guidance.

"Come on, then. I'll show you to the doors."

Christine was relieved, and she followed him gratefully. She was very glad that the audition itself was over. She had sung, and she had done her best. It was all she could have done. And they had said something about her rehearsal schedule. So did that mean…?

"Mr. Reyer?" she said nervously. "Did I…? Um—am I…?"

"You can consider yourself employed with us, Miss Daae," Mr. Reyer said, somewhat curtly. "We're all very impressed. As Mr. Moncharmin said, we'll be contacting you in a few days with your rehearsal schedules. Thank you for taking the time to audition for us."

"Yeah, thanks for…having me," she replied stupidly, her brain seemingly going numb.

She had done it. It was over, and she had done it. She rode the bus in a somewhat dazed stupor. The audition had seemed like such a huge thing. She had been training for it for three months, but now it was over, and she felt a little stunned. Erik had taught her well enough for her to sing at one of the most renowned Opera Houses in the country. Three months, and…She rubbed her cheek in awe. Many singers trained their entire lives for chances like this. She had been taught enough in three months. That meant that either she was truly an extraordinary singer, or (more likely) Erik was a genius instructor.

As she went through the long process of being able to see her father, Christine let a small amount of precious and rare happiness bubble up inside of her. She had done it! She had at last succeeded at something. She was no longer unemployed. She belonged somewhere and had somewhere to be each day.

However, as she pulled on the gloves and the medical mask required, she felt the little happiness drain away. Her father was in here…dying.

He looked worse than ever, pale and gaunt, and she felt her eyes well up with tears as she saw him. His eyes cracked open blearily, tiredly, and she saw his fingers twitch a little, as if he was trying to lift his arm in greeting but couldn't manage.

"Lotte," he rasped softly, and she lightly touched his hand. However, that resulted in a similarly-masked nurse hurrying up to her and firmly requesting that she not touch the patient for fear of transferring the disease. Needing to be close to him anyway, Christine knelt down so she was eye level with him. With great effort, he turned his head to look at her. His skin was papery and thin, and his lips were an unnatural shade of red. His eyes were dull and exhausted, and she could see the effort it was taking him to keep his eyes open and to focus on her.

"I did it, _Pappa_," she whispered tearfully. "I did it. I'm singing in the Opera House now."

His lips twitched, perhaps his attempt at a smile.

"Good," he managed to grunt. "Your _moder_…she sang…"

"I know," Christine said, feeling some tears slide out as she tried to find something in her father's once-clear blue eyes. "You told me, _Pappa_. And when I sing, I'll get you a seat on the first row, center stage. You don't have to play your violin. You can just sit there and enjoy it."

"She sings…to me…" he said, hoarsely and with a throaty, painful-sounding rasp. His eyelids flickered. "She sings."

"_Moder?" _Christine asked. "_Moder _sings to you? _Pappa?_"

But his eyes were closed, and Christine could tell that he had dropped off into unconsciousness once again. His chest rose and fell weakly, and she knelt there until a nurse approached and helped her stand. She felt awful standing there in her beautiful red dress, looking at her weak, helpless _Pappa_.

The nurse led her out of the room, and she washed her hands carefully with special provided soap. Even though the disease was passed through the airway, the nurses had told her that every precaution had to be taken, especially as it was a resistant strain of tuberculosis. Before she left, she listened in silent despair as the doctor gently told her that her father did not have much longer, and that it would probably be best if she sorted out Gustave's affairs as soon as possible.

When she returned to her apartment, she sobbed for a long while, sitting on the floor and resting her head against the side of the mattress, simply wailing and feeling her makeup run down her cheeks and chin. What did it matter that she was singing in some silly Opera House? The person she loved most in the world was dying, and there was nothing to be done about it. She would have to accept his death and acknowledge the fact that he had left her…but she couldn't. She didn't want to. She had prayed to God that He would bless her with her father's companionship for her entire life, yet Gustave was leaving her when she was only twenty years old. How could God do this to her? Hadn't she been faithful? Hadn't she been righteous? She prayed often and attended church every Sunday. She tried to do all the good things she could…She didn't break the law and she tried to be kind to everyone. She kept the Commandments. Yet why would God punish her with the thing He knew she dreaded most of all?

After she had exhausted herself and her tears came in bouts of sniffles, she heard her phone ring, and she reached for it.

"_Hey!_" Raoul said, sounding cheerful. "_How did your try-out—I mean, how did your audition go?"_

"It went well," she said softly. "I got the job. I'm singing for the Opera House now."

"_Really? Christine, that's great! That's amazing. Hey—let me take you out to dinner. You can tell me all about it."_

The thought of going out had never been more repulsive. She said, "Sorry, Raoul, but I don't…I don't really feel like going out tonight. I'm sorry."

"_That's fine. Are you okay, Christine?"_

"Fine," she whispered, rubbing at her eyes. How could he ask her if she was _okay _when he knew her father was dying? That was the question, wasn't it? _Are you okay?_ She didn't think she would ever be okay.

"_Are you sure? You sound upset."_

"I'm fine," she repeated.

"_All right. Well, if you don't want to go out, do you want me to come over? I'm in town right now, actually, and I could grab you some dinner and swing by."_

She was always touched by his thoughtfulness. After a moment of thinking, she realized that she did want company. Didn't she deserve to be a _little _happy on the day she got a job singing for the Opera House? Raoul usually always made her happy.

"Yeah, that'd be great," she said at last. "Just whatever is fine."

"_See you soon_."

As she cleaned herself up in the bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror. She wanted to let herself be happy, but it felt disrespectful to her father to do so. He was dying, and she was having her dreams come true. Why did it all have to happen simultaneously? It was confusing her. She was happy, and then she wasn't…She was sad, and then she wasn't…Christine groaned and pulled her hair away from her face. She was probably driving everyone crazy with all of her mood swings.

Raoul came with take-out and sparkling cider and a hug and a kiss. She instantly felt marginally better.

"It's a congratulations drink, but it's a non-alcoholic one since you're still a baby," he said to her, pouring her a cup. "Though not for long, right?"

She took the glass and sipped on the fizzy drink, crinkling her nose as it popped in her mouth. "Yep," she said. "I'll finally be a grown-up in May."

While they were eating, he reached over and took her hand. "Hey, I know you're gonna hate me for asking, but…you did sound pretty rough on the phone. Are you sure things are okay?"

She paused, setting down her fork (she had never been able to master chopsticks). After glancing at him, she said quietly, "I'm fine now. I went to see my dad after my audition got over. He's…really bad. The doctor said…yeah. Not much else to do."

"I'm really sorry," he said, squeezing her fingers. "I'll do all that I can, okay?"

"I know," she said honestly. "Thanks. You're a life-saver."

And he really was. When the dinner was cleaned up, he let her snuggle him. She hoped he didn't mind, but it was comforting to be physically close to someone after such a long, trying day. She wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned against him, finding some semblance of peace in his steady, strong heartbeat. He put an arm around her as well, and they spoke quietly for a long while, keeping the conversation away from Gustave and her singing. She felt herself thrumming with sadness and also with a sorrowful conviction: even if Gustave didn't want to stay with her, it seemed that Raoul did.


	22. Chapter 22

The wind was freezing, and Christine shivered insanely as she stared at the rich, dark earth. The priest's words were lost in the wind, carried away from her, but she knew she wouldn't have listened anyway. She felt as if she had lost all ability to function. She didn't hear or see or feel anything. Everything and everyone was a giant blur, and she was whirling around, almost out of control, lost without her anchor.

Raoul's arm came around her shoulders, and he pulled her close for comfort and for warmth. The graveyard looked gloomy, and the weather seemed to echo its sentiment. His heart beat firmly and solidly against her, and she looked down.

She had never seen earth so dark. It was pure, clean earth, and her father was beneath it. He was in a box, and it was going to be beneath the earth. It seemed so cruel.

A few of the words of the priest drifted to her. "Those who trust in Him shall understand truth, and the faithful shall abide with Him in love…"

It was the bare minimum of a graveside service. She didn't want a viewing or a funeral or anything similar. The last thing she needed was a reminder of just how alone she was now. To her dull surprise, a few people had shown up for the service. The first and second violinists as well as the conductor of the orchestra in which Gustave had played were standing on the opposite side of the gravesite, dressed darkly and with heads bowed in respect. She had never met them before, and they had offered murmured condolences and their sympathy to her as they gathered.

Raoul had been the one pulling her through. When she had at last learned of Gustave's passing, she had felt a desire to crawl away into a dark hole and never emerge. She tried that—spent an entire day in her bed, staring blankly at the wall—but Raoul was stern and gentle. He picked up the pieces, just as he had always done, and he had somehow kindly forced her to wake up, get out of bed, shower, and eat. He had sorted through the minimum life insurance that Gustave had had, and he had arranged nearly everything for her.

The entire thing had run her into the ground. On top of the emotional devastation, she was also faced with the several thousand dollars required for the things like the casket, the tombstone, the mortician service, the gravesite…The insurance hardly made a dent in the mounting costs, and she was still facing some bills that the hospital had sent to her. She felt empty, hollow, and she rubbed at her eyes. She hadn't cried all day, and she wondered if something was wrong with her. She somehow felt evil for not crying at her father's graveside service. What was wrong with her?

Still, the only moisture in her eyes was a result of the cold wind, and she was shivering so much that Raoul pulled off his heavy overcoat and wrapped it around her tightly. There were thick gray clouds in the sky, looming and threatening, waiting for the right moment to open up and rain. She thought how perfectly fitting the weather was for a funeral. It was like something out of a movie, really.

Christine put a hand to her throat, reaching for her necklace before remembering that it was clasped in her father's cold, lifeless hands. She had grown nearly hysterical when insisting that her father be buried with it. Raoul had managed to smooth things over, and so now her neck would be bare forever.

The priest's words came back to her, the closing lines, and he said solemnly, "The righteous live forever, and in the Lord is their recompense, and the thought of them is with the Most High."

There was a long pause, and Raoul wrapped his arms around her even more tightly and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, meaning to be comforting.

With the service ended, the three musicians in attendance came and gave her more condolences and soft words of compassion before turning and walking away. The priest, who was the priest of the congregation she attended, came over and clasped her hands and spoke more words of the goodness of God and His omniscient nature.

"God would not have taken such a good man without a divine reason," the priest said quietly, his hands fleshy and warm against hers. "Gustave is needed elsewhere. God is your Father, and He will watch over you forever."

Christine nodded, somewhat blankly, and the priest exhorted her to continue her faithful church attendance before leaving.

She stood in silence for several long moments before Raoul rubbed her arms and said quietly, "Are you ready to go? They probably want to get everything…finished up before it starts raining."

Again, she nodded, and Raoul pulled her away and up the gentle slope to his gleaming BMW. He opened the door for her and ensured she was in and buckled before getting in himself and driving away. They were driving away from her father. She would never see him again. He would never play his violin again. It was currently in her closet, transferred from her old apartment to Raoul's, and then to her new apartment. Gustave would never be able to entrance her with its strings ever again.

"Do you want to stay at my place tonight?" Raoul asked. "It might be best."

She shook her head. "I just want to go home," she at last said, her voice hoarse.

"Okay," he said quietly after several silent seconds. There was silence the rest of the way to her apartment, and when they arrived, Raoul saw her to her door. He pulled her in for a crushing embrace, and then he said,

"Everything's going to be all right, okay? You'll get through this, baby. I know you will. Just…just let me know if you need anything. I'm going to call you tomorrow morning to see if you're okay. Just get lots of sleep. It's been a hard morning for you."

She nodded into his chest, and he kissed her before leaving at last. Christine fiddled with her keys in her pocket, staring at the 9B glimmering on the white door. Then, after a few more moments, she turned around and headed back down the hallway and to the elevator.

It had begun to rain, and she waited for a solid ten minutes at the uncovered bus stop, holding her coat over her head, teeth chattering in her knee-length black dress and old, open-toed black heels.

As she rode the bus, the heaters managed to warm her slightly, and the rocking and swaying and creaking of it was somehow soothing. It was familiar, comfortable, and she leaned her head back into the minimally-cushioned headrest, closing her eyes and trying not to think too much on the past several hours.

She departed at the right stop and hurried through the sidewalks, stepping in three invisible puddles on her way. Soaked and completely miserable, she trudged through the downpour and then gratefully stepped underneath the overhang in front of the old theater. Christine glanced over her shoulder a couple times before walking forward and pulling on the handle timidly.

To her complete surprise, it gave way and she was able to slip inside and out of the rain. However, it was still rather chilly, and she felt her skin prickle in protest of her wet clothes and the cold, musty air around her. Trembling from the temperature, she walked through the lobby and into the house, looking around. She knew her makeup was runny and her hair was a disaster, but this was the one place she actually wanted to be. The thought of being anywhere else made her…sick.

As she walked up to the stage, movement on the right wing caught her eye, and Erik emerged. He stopped when he saw her and then instantly dropped the pile of papers he was holding. They scattered onto the stage.

"_What _are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice bouncing around the theater, surrounding her.

"I—I'm—" she stuttered.

"You _stupid _girl! Are you deaf? Are you mentally impaired? Do you not _understand _what I tell you?"

She took a step backward, instantly frightened, and Erik nimbly leapt off the stage and approached her. Christine watched him for two seconds before turning to run. However, his long, thin hand caught her wrist, and his grip was too tight to wrench away from. He pulled her over to the stage and up onto it.

"I'm so sorry!" she whispered, still completely clueless as to what he was angry about. "I'm so—Erik! Please!"

He tugged her over to the right wing, and she was whimpering apologies to him. Then, she saw him bend over and pick up something long and dark. He turned around, released her wrist, and grabbed at her wet coat.

"Take this off immediately," he said, and she frantically pulled at it until it slipped off. Erik leaned over and wrapped her up in what he was holding. He pulled it tightly, ensuring that it went all the way around her shoulders to the front of her neck. She looked down, and she saw that she was wrapped up in a very long, fine black coat. It went all the way to her feet. She realized that it must have been Erik's overcoat. It probably only went to his knees or mid-calf, and yet it engulfed her completely.

Then he led her back onstage again and pushed her down on the piano bench. His long scarf was in his hands, and he wrapped it around her throat again, still tugging too tightly. When he disappeared backstage momentarily, she pulled the scarf somewhat so that it wasn't choking her.

He returned, carrying a large, hideous plush armchair. He set it down near the piano and gestured to it.

"It is an old prop, but it will be suitable enough."

Watching him carefully, still slightly afraid that he would start yelling and attack her, she rose from the bench and tiptoed over to the faded chair, sitting down carefully. Erik looked at her for an uncomfortably-long time, and she squirmed under his gaze, staring down at the stage.

Finally, he turned and went back to the piano bench and sat down, yet he looked at her again.

"Now, my dear," he said, his voice a forced calm. "Tell me what you are doing here. Your father's funeral is today, is it not?" he said. She had told him that, and he had allowed her to have a few days free of lessons, to collect herself and grieve. As the Opera House had contacted her and informed her that she wouldn't start rehearsals for another two weeks (they were still in the middle of their current production), Erik had sternly stated that her break from lessons would be at least somewhat acceptable.

"It was," she said at last, her fingers still trembling as she clutched at the coat. "It…just got over."

"And why did you venture out into this dismal weather and run the risk of damaging your voice when you know very well that you have no lessons for the next several days?"

She felt her cheeks warm a little at the question, and she pulled at the thick scarf around her neck. With a small shrug, she looked at her lap, still unsure herself. Erik sighed and pushed his fingers into the line where his mask met his black hair, his glowing eyes disappearing for a moment. Then he stood.

"Stay there," he instructed, his voice very stern. "You will not move, do you understand? I will return shortly."

Christine nodded immediately. Before he left, he walked over and pulled on her scarf again.

"Keep your throat warm," he said. The he walked offstage, and she was left alone and in complete silence for a very long time. Feeling uncomfortable, Christine squirmed around in her seat before kicking off her shoes onto the stage. Then, looking around to ensure that Erik wasn't there, she managed to shimmy out of her nylons, sticking them in the pocket of the coat and making a mental note to grab them before she left. Her dress was damp, and she wanted to take that off as well, but she would never do such a thing. Then she curled up in the chair, the coat and scarf managing to warm her a little.

However, inside she felt cold. Gustave was…gone. Dead. She was never going to see him again. Christine rubbed at her eyes, feeling a headache beginning to form, and she took several deep breaths. She vividly remembered much of her mother's funeral. It had been devastating. She remembered her father wailing beside the open casket, on his knees, and Christine had watched with wide eyes, unable to understand why her _Pappa_—the strongest, best man in the world—was crying so hard because _Moder _was sleeping.

For two days afterward, Christine didn't see Gustave once, as he was locked up in his bedroom. Being five, Christine had simply used it as an opportunity to eat whatever she wanted and do whatever she wanted. She slept wherever and whenever she felt tired. However, the novelty soon wore off, and she wanted her _Pappa _and _Moder_. When Gustave finally emerged, he had neither slept, eaten, nor showered, and Christine had clung to his leg as he sat down at the table. She had screamed for her _Moder_, wanting to know where she was and why she wasn't with Christine right now.

Then her _förskoleklass—_her preschool—had become concerned about her mounting absences, and one thing had toppled after another, and soon she was taken away from Gustave entirely for a whole year.

But now Gustave was gone forever, up in heaven with his wife. Christine pressed her fingertips into her eyes. She hadn't prayed in days. She didn't ask God why He had taken away her father. The things God did made no sense anymore. It seemed like He simply wanted her to be miserable forever.

Erik returned at length, and he approached her. To her surprise, he was bearing a tall, steaming cup, and he presented it to her.

"Drink this," he said.

Christine shifted in the seat and sat up, accepting the cup. It warmed her chilly fingers.

"Thank you," she said quietly, looking into it. It was a light brown liquid. Tea, she supposed. After blowing on it a few times, she took a sip. It scalded her tongue and throat and felt good. It tasted wonderful, like honey and cinnamon.

Erik had gone over at last to gather up the papers that he had dropped, and she watched him silently, holding the tea up to her mouth and letting the steam rise up into her nose.

For some bizarre reason, when Erik was around, the pressure in her chest seemed to lessen just a little. She had no idea why. He was a bad man. He was a murderer. She knew that she needed to be as far away from him as possible, but here she was, and she didn't want to be anywhere else.

As she continued to watch him straighten up the papers and return to the piano bench, she wondered whether it was the music that made her feel minimally better. Erik seemed to possess unsung music in his very being, as if a symphony was always waiting to burst from him. The music always made her feel better about everything. As long as there was music, there was purpose.

She sipped her tea and watched as he jotted down things onto the papers he had collected. His head was tilted and bent at an awkward angle, and his entire frame seemed to draw inward toward what he was writing, as if it was sucking him in.

"Are you composing something?" she then asked unthinkingly.

His head snapped up, almost like he had forgotten she was there, and his glowing eyes were narrowed slightly.

"Yes," he said, without any hint of anger, malice, or bitterness in his voice.

"Can I hear it?" she said, a little encouraged by the fact that he had answered her without his usual sarcasm.

After a slight pause, he said, "Perhaps when it is completed." Then he returned to his odd posture and continued writing. Christine noted the sharp angles of his frame. Somehow everything worked together. Even his strange position looked elegant.

As she watched, she began looking closely at his mask again, wondering what he could be hiding beneath it. His true identity, no doubt. He didn't want anyone recognizing him on a random street and yelling for the police. Still…she again wondered if someday he would trust her enough to remove it—if only in front of her for just a little while. She wouldn't tell anyone, she knew that.

They sat in silence for a very long time, though Christine sensed that it wasn't uncomfortable or awkward. She continued to drink her tea, finding that it was warming her just as much as the coat and scarf. When she was finished with it, she set the cup down by the chair and snuggled back into the coat, simply watching him.

"Do you think my dad was a good man?" Christine asked suddenly.

The scratching of his pen stopped, and he looked up toward her. "I am hardly a man to judge character, my dear," Erik said indifferently. "And in any case, I was not acquainted with your father."

"I know, but…" She rubbed furiously at her eyes. "Even after what he did, do you think he was a good man?"

Erik looked at her for a couple moments and then said, "He borrowed money from a drug lord and neglected to tell you about the dangers involved in such a bargain."

Christine nodded, still grinding her fingers into her eyes. "I know," she whispered.

"However, from what I understand, he did it with only the best intentions. Apparently he was planning to use the extra income to send you to post-secondary school."

"What?" Christine straightened a little. "What do you mean? How—how do you know that?"

"I was told that he spoke with his creditors about his desire to send his daughter to a university. Apparently it was intended to be a gift for the holidays."

Her heart was pounding loudly and frantically in her chest, and she felt sick. "How did you…?" she whispered.

"I was informed of this while paying off your father's debt."

Christine reeled, clutching at her head. "You…?" She couldn't seem to manage complete sentences.

"Naturally," Erik said smoothly. "I could not simply take your father without endangering you. I do not think you understand such men, Christine. If they lost the opportunity to get back their money from your father, they would have turned to you. They are not noble. He wanted his money, and I gave it to him to free your father and to protect you."

Her breath was starting to come faster and shorter, and she shut her eyes tightly, trying to control her racing heart and frantic breaths. Gustave would be alive now if not for her…He had borrowed the money for her, and she had been too poor and too afraid to seek for him sooner. She was the cause of it all, and now he was dead and was never coming back. And Erik…he had done everything for her. She could never repay him, no matter how long and hard she worked. She would always be in his debt. She owed him tens of thousands of dollars, as well as her life.

A pain began to tug in her chest, and she felt sudden, irrational fear that it was tuberculosis, coming to steal her away like it did her father. She was going to die a slow, painful death, just like Gustave. Her sickness increased, and she felt like she was going to throw up. Tremors began to shake her, and she tried to stop them, but she seemed to have no control over it anymore. Her body had a will of its own. With fear filling her, she realized that she could not stop anything her body was doing. She had no control over herself. Completely terrified, she believed that death was coming to steal her. There was nothing that could stop it. The resistant strain couldn't be killed by medicine or other treatments—she was going to die, too.

Something grabbed at her, and she released a painful gasp, keeping her eyes shut tight. She felt herself being laid down on the stage, and a sudden chill around her throat and front told her that the scarf had been removed and the coat had been opened. Through her haze of terror and despair, she heard Erik's rich, soothing voice.

"Christine, calm down."

She wanted to obey him—she didn't want her body acting this way, but she still felt suffocated, and her heart was still racing. She heaved for air, trembling violently. All of her fears were bubbling up, and her vision was swimming.

_Gustave was happier now…happier without her…happier now that he was with his wife again—happier than he had ever been with his daughter. He would have chosen his wife over her if he could have, would have traded their places in a heartbeat_. _Nobody wanted her, not even her own father. She had tried to be everything to him, everything he could have ever wanted, but it was still not enough. She was not her mother. She was only Christine. _

Something cold held both of her cheeks, keeping her face turned upward. Erik's voice came again.

"Calm down, Christine. Listen to me."

She managed to reach up and grabbed hold of something, as if it would anchor her. With monumental, exhausting effort, she cracked her eyes open and saw that Erik was kneeling beside her, peering down at her. His hands were cupping her cheeks, and she was gripping his thin, bony wrists tightly.

"Listen to me," he repeated. "You are having a panic attack. I want you to breathe slowly, just as we did in our first lessons. Do you remember how, my dear?"

She wanted to say yes, she did remember, but she couldn't wrench open her mouth or even nod her head. Terror was still clouding her senses, and the pain in her chest was not receding.

Erik tugged his hand away from her grip, and then he took her hand in his and pulled it up to press her palm against his chest. She could feel bones against her hand. His heartbeat was strong and steady. Slowly and carefully, he breathed in and out.

"Just like this," he said. "Do you feel my breathing? You do the same."

There was silence then, and he continued to hold her hand against his chest. He continued his slow, sure breathing. The rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to beat in time to each of his breaths, and the music in his body movement helped her more than anything else. Slowly, with painful, exhausting effort, she tried to match her body up with his.

"Yes," he said softly as he saw her attempts. "Breathe."

After several more long, agonizing minutes, her breath slowed enough for her to manage, and though her heart was still racing, she no longer felt completely out of control. She felt hollow, weak, and shaky, and she continued to grip Erik's wrist with one hand and feel his breathing with the other.

"When was the last time you ate something substantial?" he asked quietly.

Christine strained her memory, and it felt like her entire body protested the conscious and taxing action. She hadn't eaten anything that morning, as her stomach had been too uneasy to try. The only thing she'd had all day was the tea Erik had provided her with. And yesterday…Her head hurt trying to remember.

However, apparently Erik was not waiting for an answer, for he said, "This is a result of your built-up stress and grief. But the music can heal you—don't you know that?"

She did know that. Erik's unsung music had helped her even before this terrifying episode.

Quietly, Erik began to sing, and this calmed her more than anything else in the world would. His beautiful, hypnotizing timbre seemed to enter her body and force everything inside of her to rest. Her heartbeat slowed at last, and she was able to relax fully. Still, she kept her hands in place, needing to feel the music underneath her fingertips. Christine took in a deep, shuddering breath, letting her lungs fill up properly, and then she released it in a shivering sigh, letting her eyes drift close.

His hand on her cheek was cold, she dully noticed, but she tiredly leaned into it, as if it was a pillow. The music was entrancing, and it was gently entreating her to rest. The music always knew best, and so she sighed once more and fell deeply asleep.


	23. Chapter 23

She woke with a hoarse, long moan, putting a hand over her eyes. Her head ached, and the most heavenly things in the world would be painkillers and a glass of water. As she laid there and became somewhat coherent, she opened her eyes and saw that she was in the bedroom of her little apartment. Christine blinked in surprise, having expected to see the old, faded curtains of the theater.

Rubbing her eyes again, she yawned and then groaned one more time before forcing herself to sit up. Her clock told her that it was midmorning, but there was hardly any sun entering through the windows. She realized that it was still gray and raining outside.

As she shifted her body to climb out of the bed, she saw that she was still wearing her black funeral dress. Her shoes were on the floor beside her. Erik must have somehow gotten her home from the theater. She didn't know why, but she was inexplicably touched by this, and her eyes stung a little from tears of gratitude. To think that the cold, cruel Phantom would ensure that she was taken home safely was…startling and nice.

And what he had done for her the day before…

Christine pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, breathing slowly and deeply. What had happened yesterday had been one of the most terrifying things that had ever happened to her. That feeling of no control…She felt as if she had been suffocating.

As she was calming herself down again, she suddenly heard a slight clattering outside of her room, and she could detect a scent—it was a breakfast smell, and she at last stood and carefully made her way over to the door, not wanting to fall down because of her unsteady legs.

Opening her bedroom door and walking down the miniscule hallway into the living area and then the kitchen, she pushed her hair out of her face and called softly.

"Erik?"

To her everlasting shame, she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed when Raoul stuck his head around the small portion of the wall. He caught sight of her and went over to wrap his arms around her, pulling her into a crushing hug. Christine was acutely aware of her dirty, wrinkled dress (which probably smelled because it had been soaked in the rain and then dried), her raw face, and her frizzy hair.

"Hey," he said softly. "Hungry?"

She paused and then nodded, suddenly aware of her growling stomach.

"It'll be ready in a couple minutes," Raoul then said.

"Okay," she said, surprising herself that she could speak so easily. She still felt a little funny. "Lemme just…change real quick."

She went back to her room and shimmied out of her stiff, hideous dress, tossing it into a corner, never wanting to see it again. Then she went into the bathroom and washed her face and neck, the water warm and somewhat soothing. With much effort, she pulled her hair back and away from her face. After putting on soft, comfortable yoga pants and a clean shirt, she emerged again, feeling minimally better now that she was somewhat cleaner.

Raoul pulled out her chair for her, the table already set, and she was almost shamed to see how nice it all looked. There were even flowers—pink and pretty, though she didn't know the name of them. Their scent mingled with the smell of the sizzling breakfast.

He served her breakfast first and then helped himself, and Christine looked at the bacon, eggs, and toast with jam. Her stomach was growling in anticipation, and she grabbed her fork and tucked in quietly.

"So who's Erik?" Raoul then asked, and Christine's stomach jumped. She looked up at him quickly to see that he was eating calmly, though he was looking at her as well.

"No one," she said stupidly, trying hard to think of a lie. It was difficult, as her head was still slightly achy. "What type of flowers are these, again? They're pretty."

"The lady at the flower store told me that they're called cyclamens," he said. "I'm glad you like them."

He gave her the option of juice or milk, and she instead asked for water.

After he had resumed his seat, he said, "You know, you're gonna have to tell me anyway. It makes me a little nervous when you think some other guy is in your apartment, making you breakfast."

She knew he was very upset about it. Otherwise, he wouldn't be bringing it up on the morning after her father's funeral. So she sighed heavily and set her fork down.

"I'm really sorry," she mumbled. "He's—he's my neighbor. He came over last night to say sorry about my dad." That would be accepted, wouldn't it? Erik was a common enough name…

"And stayed the night?" Raoul said.

Christine was beginning to feel upset again, and she tried to calm herself down, but there were cracks in her voice as she said, "No, I—I got…really sick last night. He was there, and he helped me. He's really nice, Raoul. He only wanted to help. I thought he…was just being nice and making me breakfast. I'm sorry. He's just a nice old guy that lives in my building. He's retired and divorced." She was inventing wildly, anything to keep who Erik _really _was a complete mystery.

Raoul waved away the last little bit of information. "You got sick last night?" he asked, looking concerned. "What happened?"

"It was nothing," she said, not wanting him to worry over her. "I'm fine now."

"Tell me what happened," Raoul said, reaching out to put a hand over hers.

"No—Raoul, it really was nothing." All she wanted to do was finish her now-tepid breakfast without anyone exclaiming over her. She just wanted peace and quiet, time to think and rest.

"If it was nothing, why won't you tell me? You don't know how worried I am about you." He was leaning forward, and he did look very worried.

Christine bit her lip and stared at her yellow eggs as she said, half-slurring her words in a crazy attempt that he would misunderstand her, "I had a panic attack, but I'm fine now."

"A panic attack?" _He _looked panicked now. "Why didn't you call me? Did you go to the hospital? Are you okay? Do you need to go the hospital now?"

Christine pulled her hand away from his and held them up as a plea for silence. "I'm okay, Raoul," she said, sounding as firm as she could. "Really, I'm fine. Please don't freak out over this. Erik said it was probably because of my dad's…funeral and stuff. I'm okay."

He was unconvinced and tried to get her to go to the hospital for a few more minutes, but she would not back down, and eventually Raoul conceded a reluctant defeat.

"But we're going if you start to feel weird again, okay?" he said, and she nodded tiredly. He cleaned up breakfast, and she sat with her cheek in her hand, feeling guilty but too tired to protest or help.

"Thanks," she said softly as he put away the last clean dish. He replied with an affectionate smile, and she yawned widely, covering her hand with her mouth.

"I took work off today so I could be with you if you need me," Raoul said. "Do you need anything? Do you need me to run to the store or run any errands for you?"

Christine shook her head, not wanting to even think about things like that. She didn't want to mentally run over her out-of-stock groceries or think about any bills. Even though she had probably slept for a solid twelve or thirteen hours at least, she was still feeling beat. All the sleepless nights she had spent tossing and turning those days before and following her father's death had finally caught up to her.

"You should probably just go home, Raoul," Christine murmured. "I just want to sleep today, so I'm not gonna be much fun. Thanks for breakfast."

He frowned a little. "I think I should stay here," he said. "I want to make sure that you wake up and eat. I'll cook for you again—no biggie."

"I'm not a baby," she said, and then she felt childish for saying that, but she continued anyway. "I don't need you telling me to eat."

"You do now," he said, his voice ever-gentle. "Just for today, Christine. Okay? Just until I think you're okay enough to do it yourself."

Knowing he'd keep arguing and feeling too tired to do so, Christine merely shrugged and stood. "All right," she said. "Do what you want, I guess. I'm going to sleep some more."

She was pulled in by him, and he kissed the top of her head. She then wriggled out of his arms and went to the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. Before going back to sleep, she took a warm, soothing shower and washed away the grime from the rain. Then she pulled on comfortable cotton pajamas and climbed into the wide bed, closing her eyes and falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

What felt like mere moments later, someone was shaking her, and she huffed in sleepy irritation and pulled away from them, settling comfortably on her stomach and burying her face in the soft pillow.

The shaking, however, merely resumed. "Christine, wake up."

She recognized Raoul's voice through her groggy haze, and she lifted her head from the pillow and cracked open her eyes. They were heavy and hard to open.

"Time for lunch," Raoul said quietly. Christine groaned and dropped her head into the pillow before reluctantly sliding out of the bed and following Raoul back into the kitchen. She ate mechanically, trying to remember the dream she had been having. It had been uncomfortable, she remembered that, but she couldn't quite remember anything else. When she had cleared most of her plate, she thanked him quietly and then trudged right back to the bed.

Sleeping was a blessing. She didn't have to dwell on…certain things when she slept. Everything disappeared for hours upon blissful hours. While sleeping, she wasn't crying, and she wasn't hurting. Gustave's pale, drained face wasn't haunting her thoughts, and Erik's music wasn't racing through her mind. She was at peace.

But it could never last, and she knew that soon she would have to confront herself and work through her anger and grief. Yet for now, she would let herself have the time to relax and get somewhat well physically again.

After she was woken up for dinner, she glanced back to the lonely bedroom and then decided that she wanted physical affection. Raoul cleaned up after she finished eating, and when he sat down on the sofa, she sat by him, leaning her head on his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his stomach. He accepted it all with good graces, and he put an arm around her as well. She knew she was a snuggly person—she liked touching and being touched, held, and caressed. Her father had raised her on hugs and kisses, and they made her feel warm and safe. She knew that she was lucky that Raoul didn't find it annoying.

He distracted and entertained her with the games on his phone. They played some trivia games together, quietly and contentedly arguing about some answers, and he made her giggle a few times throughout the evening. Then she felt bad about laughing the day after her _Pappa_'s funeral.

The rainstorm was continuing, but the room was warm, and she was sleepy and comfortable. She yawned a little, and he pulled her closer.

"You still feeling okay?" he asked softly.

She nodded, closing her eyes. Then she shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted softly.

"Yeah," he said, and he ran his hand through her curls. "I know this doesn't compare, but…I had a cousin who was diagnosed with leukemia when she was five. It was hard for her parents, of course, and for the whole family, but…you know, they were just glad that she wasn't in pain anymore. They didn't want to see her hurting like she was. I'm sure your dad's in a better place."

She was silent. How could Gustave leave her alone while he went to this _better place? _Why would he die, knowing perfectly well how frightened and vulnerable she would feel after he left her? This was the worst kind of torture for her—she had struggled through poverty, she had experienced anger and terror and hurt, she had been trapped in a dead-end job…She had already gone through the death of one parent. Why would God take away the only thing she was genuinely afraid to lose?

Raoul was quiet as well, and the night continued in a somewhat contemplative, reflective stillness. Christine kept her eyes closed, curled up close to Raoul, his body keeping her warm. With a little sigh, she knew that she would never get the answers. She would never know why God took her father, and she would never know what would have happened if things had gone differently—if she had been there that night he was taken, if he had been found sooner, if they had diagnosed his tuberculosis earlier…There was no way of knowing. And it was frustrating, but there was nothing to be done. She forced herself to relax, and she slowly fell asleep.

The sun on her face woke her the next morning, and she scrunched her nose and turned away from it in irritation, feeling too sleepy and comfortable to consider getting up. However, now that she was awake, her mind was slowly beginning to buzz with thoughts, and she slowly opened her eyes. She was surprised to see Raoul there still; she had assumed that he would leave after she fell asleep. However, there he was, asleep on the couch. She was comfortably squished by him—half-beside him and half-on top of him. He looked peaceful and handsome while he slept, with his blond hair tousled and his lips curved upward ever-so-slightly. She wanted to kiss them, but that would wake him up.

She looked and saw that the rain had cleared, and the morning was bright. With a little grunt, she situated herself back down by Raoul, putting her head on his chest. She lightly played with the buttons of his now-wrinkly shirt, tracing them carefully. For a brief second, she considered what it would be like doing this every morning for the rest of her life. Was that what this relationship was leading to? She had already thought about it before. She wouldn't sleep with him, but he was still with her. So…what was it about? Pity? Obligation? …Marriage? Of course Raoul had talked about what he wanted for his future, and he was looking forward to a quiet life with a wife and some children…nothing incredibly dramatic. Gustave had said that Raoul wanted to marry her, but she wasn't sure.

With some pinprick tears of sadness, she realized that Gustave would never attend her wedding. Fathers didn't usually give their daughters away in traditional Swedish weddings, but…she had wanted him to be there. He was her only family.

She sniffled a little and then looked around the room, searching for something to distract her from her depressing thoughts. The nice wall clock was ticking softly, and she examined the intricate design for a few moments before actually paying attention to the time. She inhaled swiftly.

"Raoul!" she hissed, shaking him a little. "Wake up!"

He grunted and tried to shift away, but the couch was too narrow, and his brows knitted in confusion.

"Hey, wake up!" she said again. "Aren't you supposed to be at work now?"

Raoul reluctantly opened his eyes and then searched her face. "What?" he mumbled, clearly annoyed at having been woken up.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work now?" she repeated clearly. "Look at the time."

He looked over at the clock and, a millisecond after doing so, fell off the couch. He swore swiftly and repeatedly. Then he gave her a side glance and said, "I mean—dang it, dang it, dang it."

While he was washing his face and hands in the bathroom, she pushed down some toast for him, chewing on her lip and twirling a curl around her finger. She felt bad that he was late because of her.

He hurried out of the bathroom, and she held out the toast and an apple. He took both, gave her a distracted, hasty kiss, and said, "I'll call you later!" while rushing out the door. Then it was silent. Christine ate toast herself and then showered, keeping her thoughts light and almost vapid. She didn't want to…think about what had happened two days ago and what would happen tomorrow.

After readying herself, she sat on the sofa for thirty minutes and argued with herself before huffing, grabbing her coat and purse, and leaving her apartment, locking it behind her securely. The day was crystal-clear and chilly. The rain had washed away a layer of smog, and she inhaled the cool morning air, feeling a little calmer as she wasn't trapped in the tiny apartment with her own thoughts. Other people existed out here. She walked behind a short, rotund man for two blocks, and the way he looked around and the camera around his neck gave him the air of a tourist. He was sighing and muttering to himself, scratching his dull brown hair. Christine looked around at the other people—a woman walking her dog, a man running for a taxi, two little kids riding bicycles…everything so perfectly normal.

And on the bus, there was more normalcy. A teenage couple bickered, and a baby was screeching loudly. Christine put some fingers to her forehead, staring out of the window. Everywhere she looked…everything was the same. It wasn't just her and Erik and Raoul and her little apartment. The entire world was out there, and it was still spinning, and it demanded her to be part of it. The normalness of life wanted her to catch up and be in it.

And Raoul…He was the most down-to-earth, normal man she had ever met. He had no dark secrets or mysterious past. He was a normal, wealthy man with a normal life, and he wanted to continue his normal life by marrying and having children. She remembered the first time they had seen each other after Paris. It had been a dull afternoon at the bookstore, and she was rearranging some shelves, trying not grumble as she picked up books that some little kids had thrown around.

The bell rang, signaling a customer, and she had poked her head up from the shelves to spot a tall man entering. She called out habitually, "Hi! Let me know if you need anything."

The man nodded, and he went and looked at the finance section in the corner. Christine finished straightening the shelves and went to sit behind the counter, wondering what she would make her father for dinner that night. She had mentally run over the list of ingredients for _köttbullar_, hoping that they had everything necessary at home.

"Hey."

She blinked and looked up. The man was standing there, studying her.

"Uh—hi," she said, tucking some curls behind her ears and then feeling stupid. He was very, very handsome. "Finding everything okay?"

"Actually, no. I'm looking for this book. I didn't see it over there…" He told her the name and author, and she typed it into the database on the computer. After a moment, she looked back at him.

"Sorry, we just sold the last one two days ago. But a new shipment's coming tomorrow morning. I can pull one aside for you if you'd like."

"Oh, okay. Sure."

When he told her his name to put on the book, she felt her heart leap in her chest. She had looked back at him, amazed that she hadn't recognized him right away. He looked exactly the same—well, maybe not exactly. He was taller, and his features were much less boyish. She did some quick math in her head. He was twenty-four or twenty-five now. Trying to be discreet, she glanced at his left hand and was a little amazed (and relieved, if she was to be honest) by the absence of a ring.

"Okay," he had said as she got his information. "I'll be back tomorrow, then."

"Bye. Have a nice day." She smiled at him, her heart pounding loudly in her chest, but, to her disappointment, he merely returned the smile and left.

He had recognized her the next day, though. As she was ringing the book up, he looked at her closely, his brows drawn a little.

"I'm sorry," he began slowly. "I know this sounds stupid—and I'm not meaning it to be a pick-up line at all. But…do I know you at all? You look…familiar."

She glanced up at him, smiling a little shyly. "Actually, you do."

"I knew it!" he said, sounding relieved and victorious. "Okay, tell me. It's going to drive me crazy if I don't know."

Putting his book in a bag, she said in French, "You saved my necklace from a fountain. I can't believe you don't remember."

"Oh my—no way!" He looked completely stunned. "No way! Are you kidding me? _Christine?_ _Petit _Christine with the crazy hair and the dresses?"

She had laughed and smiled. "Small world, I guess."

He was altogether amazed and demanded that they catch up in a proper way that didn't involve him scrambling for jewelry in the water for her. She laughed and happily, shyly, agreed to meet him for lunch the next week. And he had been so charming and so wonderful that she was again instantly smitten by him.

Still, as she stepped off the bus and made her way to the theater, she wondered what she was doing. Why was she returning to Erik again and again? Why was she bawling in front of him and trying to push Raoul away? She stepped into the musty, chilly theater.

Erik knew she was weak. He had known it from the very moment they first…met. From the very moment he had threatened to kill her. She had wailed and begged pathetically. And she had cried during countless lessons…and when Gustave had been returned to her…and when she found out why her father had been taken…and when her father had been diagnosed…Erik knew she was apt to cry at everything. She didn't _like _that she cried all the time, but it seemed to be the only way to express her built-up emotions.

Raoul knew that he was the stronger one in the relationship, but there was guilt associated with that as well. She felt bad for running to him to sob. She never wanted to complain around him or annoy him, and he wasn't the person she wanted to talk to about her father's death.

Erik was.

She entered the house and looked at the stage.

"You are back."

Erik materialized, and she suddenly smiled.

"I am," she said. She went and climbed up onto the stage, going over to the piano.

"I did not think you would return so quickly." He sat down on the bench.

"Yeah, me neither, actually," she said honestly.

There was a pause, and then Erik said, "I believe these belong to you, my dear." He pulled out her nylons, and Christine felt her face flare up faster than it ever had before.

"Oh, my gosh," she groaned softly, snatching them from him quickly and shoving them in her pocket. She had never felt more mortified in her entire life. There was a long silence, and Christine tried to get her blush to go away, but it wouldn't.

Finally, it appeared that Erik was getting irritated by the silence, for he said, "You are here because…?"

She looked at him and said hurriedly, "Yeah. I just…I was just thinking. I don't want to stay in my apartment and cry all day. I can't do that, can I? It doesn't make anything better. I know my dad's…dead." She choked a little and then swallowed the lump in her throat. "He's—he's gone, but I still want to make him proud. I came back to work."

"Very well." He handed over some exercises, and his eyes were glowing, but he was not angry or annoyed. He looked…pleased. She took the papers from him and smoothed them flat, taking a deep breath and preparing herself for a lesson.

"Let us work," Erik said.


	24. Chapter 24

There was chattering all around her. Christine sat there silently, twirling some hair around her finger, pretending to be staring at the score in her lap. Men and women were talking and laughing, and she was sitting in a corner, feeling very lonely in the crowd.

It was her first day of rehearsal at the Opera House, and she was nervous. She had woken early that morning, too anxious to go back to sleep. Erik had assured her that nothing would be required of her except to show up and blend in with the mix of voices.

"Of course, that will not last long," he had said. "Soon you will begin to shine, as you deserve."

He had forbidden her to pay any attention to any vocal advice anyone gave her, stating that everyone there was incompetent regarding vocal perfection. He didn't want her 'perfect instrument' to be 'damaged' by listening to those 'over-confident screeching monkeys.' His comment had made her giggle, and he had looked a little suspicious at her laughter.

They were in a large practice room with plenty of seats for everyone. Two pianos were at the front of the room, and a large whiteboard was nailed to the wall. There was a black staff across it, and a few notes had been scribbled onto it.

Before too long, the door opened, and two men walked in. Christine recognized one of them—Mr. Reyer, who had greeted, escorted, and accompanied her on the day of her audition. She didn't try to catch his eye, though, instead staring at her lap again. The two men went to the front of the room, putting down some thick folders on the benches. Mr. Reyer cleared his throat, and the few dozen people in the room hushed.

"Welcome back from your well-deserved break," Mr. Reyer said. "In case you weren't aware, _Norma _is going over very well." There were a few titters, and Mr. Reyer waited for silence with an eyebrow raised. When everyone was still again, he said, "As you know, it is time for our gala. I'll be notifying the soloists, duets, ensembles, Et cetera, within the week. However, that does not mean we are taking a break from a production. Today we'll begin rehearsals for Figaro." There was another outbreak, and people began whispering excitedly. Mr. Reyer raised his hand in a signal for silence, and the group quickly grew quiet.

Mr. Reyer paused for a little before saying, "Yes, I know it's a favorite of many, but let's try to be professional about this. Mr. Gabriel will take you through much of the first act today. Please divide yourselves up into sections. And _please _give Mr. Gabriel your undivided attention so that you'll have a productive rehearsal." Mr. Reyer turned to go, and people began opening their scores. The other man, presumably Mr. Gabriel, sat down to one of the pianos and opened up a folder, pulling out a heavy score of paper.

"Oh, wait," Mr. Reyer suddenly said, turning back around. "I almost forgot. We have a new member of our little Opera House family joining us today."

Christine felt her cheeks heat up. She frantically, silently, and motionlessly begged Mr. Reyer not to do this, but of course he was not a mind reader, and he continued:

"Miss Christine Daae auditioned for us a couple weeks ago, and we're happy to have her here. Why don't you stand up, Miss Daae, and tell everyone a bit about yourself?"

Christine looked around and then slowly stood, clutching the score in front of her like some sort of shield. Everyone turned to look at her. She stared straight at the whiteboard, at the blue music notes written on it, and said stutteringly,

"I'm—Christine, and I—"

She was cut off by the doors opening, and everyone turned to look as someone else walked in. Christine immediately and gratefully sat down. The woman in question who had just walked in was talking loudly on a cell phone, and after a moment Christine realized the woman was speaking in rapid Spanish. A few people turned and whispered to themselves, and Christine saw more than one annoyed look directed toward the woman.

She was tall, slim, and positively gorgeous, with long, shiny black hair, olive skin, and perfect white teeth. She was dressed very fashionably, and a big black handbag was swinging from her arm as she walked over to a chair and took a seat. After a few more moments, the woman looked around at the company who was all staring at her in impatience, gave a smile, and said 'Adiós' into her phone before hanging it up and putting it into her pocket.

"We're glad to see you made it, Señora," Mr. Reyer said, a tight smile stretching his lips. "Have a good rehearsal."

The woman waggled her fingers as Mr. Reyer left, and she opened the score with something like bored indifference. Mr. Gabriel called for attention, and the rehearsal began. It was nothing but a sing-through, and Christine tried to keep up with everyone else. It wasn't _that _difficult, but she was careful because she didn't want to make a mistake and embarrass herself in front of everyone.

As the rehearsal continued, even Christine could sense a slight struggle for power between Mr. Gabriel and the woman who had entered late. She was apparently playing the leading female role, Susanna, and Christine was intimidated by the woman's voice. It was big, unashamed, and gorgeous. She buried her face in her script as if it would drown out the woman's voice. She was suddenly ashamed about her own weak little lyric soprano voice.

The rehearsal was long and uncomfortable, as the woman playing Susanna had many unpleasant things to say about Mr. Gabriel, the ensemble, and the Opera House. Christine looked around and noted that many people were rolling their eyes or muttering to each other, leading her to believe that this was a regular occurrence. Although that made her feel a little better, it was still somewhat discomforting when the woman said that the ensemble was holding her back and that the rest of the women were envious of her.

"Señora, please," Mr. Gabriel said tiredly, rubbing his face. "Please just get through this one aria, and then you're excused for the day."

The woman _hmmphed_ and stuck her nose in the air, but she sang what was required and then left, her heels clacking loudly and her long, shiny hair swinging wildly.

The rehearsal ended soon after she left—apparently she caused them to run long with her comments. Christine made no attempt to socialize, and she immediately left the room, glancing behind her a few times to ensure that she wasn't followed. She hoped someone didn't pop out of a room and demand to know where she was going.

Erik had carefully explained the layout, and she hurried past some closed doors as well as open ones. True to Erik's word, a small hallway appeared on her left, and she turned and went down it, heading for the last door on the right. Glancing around her shoulder once again, she opened the door and peeked inside. It was a small room with hardwood floor, and there was a baby grand piano situated in the middle of it. Erik was standing on the other side of the piano, looking at her expectantly.

They had worked very hard for the last week, more often than not leaving the run-down theater only when they had to. Christine found that if she focused hard and thought of nothing else, the music overwhelmed the crushing sorrow. Erik's lessons left her exhausted, and she was grateful for the distraction. She liked going home and crashing. She didn't want to stay up late and cry about her father.

Now that she would be rehearsing regularly with the Opera company, Erik had told her that he would hold his lessons with her in the Opera House itself instead of wasting time by forcing her to traipse back and forth across the city on the buses. She had been a little surprised that he would give her lessons in such a…public place, but he hadn't said anything about it, and so neither would she.

"Hi!" she said, trying not to be nervous. Something about the new atmosphere and setting of the lessons was a little jarring. It was weird to see Erik in a place other than the dark streets or the dim, old, dusty theater. She stepped in and closed the door behind her.

There were some papers on the stand, and she glanced at Erik to see that he was writing something. She looked back at the papers, seeing that it was handwritten music—Erik's, of course, as it had that distinctive, inelegant scrawl. It looked jumbled, and she could hardly tell where one measure ended and another began. She was reminded of Beethoven a bit. She had seen some pictures of the famous composer's handwritten pieces in the book Raoul had given to her for Christmas. There were numerous clumped notes, several ones that had been scribbled out, and some unintelligible notes in the margins.

"Tell me your impressions from your first rehearsal," Erik then said, and she jumped a little before snapping her gaze back to his. She shrugged.

"Fine, I guess," she said, reaching out to touch some of the piano keys. "I feel a little…um, intimidated, honestly. There are so many amazing singers. This one lady—I guess she's playing the lead in the next opera—she has such a beautiful voice."

Erik clenched a fist and narrowed his eyes at her comment.

"What?" he said, almost hissed. "Carlotta Guidicelli?"

Christine frowned. "Is that her name? I don't know. She's from Spain, I think."

Erik's chin stiffened, and he said coldly, "I have obviously not taught you well enough if you think _Carlotta Guidicelli _has a praise-worthy voice!"

"What do you mean?" Christine asked, confused. "It was beautiful!"

He looked incredibly insulted. "Do not ever presume that Carlotta Guidicelli's voice is anything other than a rapid series of ear-splitting shrieks."

"Oh," she said, completely confused. "Uh…okay."

He was silent for a moment, and then he waved his hand. "It is of no concern at the moment," he said, walking around. She edged to the other side, keeping the piano between them. He continued: "After more time has passed and you have been here longer, you will come to realize how far your voice surpasses all those who sing here."

It was strange and almost uncomfortable how Erik continually told her that her voice was a 'perfect instrument.' For a man so obviously cold, critical, and demeaning, it was almost unbelievable that he considered _her _little voice to be something special and worth training.

As the days passed and she fell into a constant routine of rehearsals and lessons, it was easier to suppress the grief. Her days were spent singing and learning, and then she walked the few blocks back to her apartment before falling into a heavy sleep. Erik seemed almost _glad _with the progress she was making. He was the…nicest he'd ever been to her. He wasn't exactly _nice, _per se, but he wasn't as sharp and impatient as he had been. Still, there were little things that set him off for no apparent reason.

Once she had been humming one of her favorite pieces—a duet for violin and cello that had been written by a late British composer, the one that had been playing that night at Raoul's work party. The melody was incredibly beautiful, and she sang it softly to herself as she was gathering her things, getting ready to go home for the night.

To her alarm and surprise, there was a sudden _bang _on the piano, and she looked up quickly to see that Erik had smashed his fists into the keyboard.

"Don't you _ever _sing that again, do you hear me?" he snarled. "Never again!"

"Okay," she said hastily, clutching her things to her chest and backing away quickly. "I'm—I'm really sorry. I didn't know."

He looked at her and then sighed, running his long fingers through his hair. "Of course you would not _know_," he said, seemingly more to himself. "Of course not."

She had watched him with wide eyes for five more seconds before offering a hasty goodbye and darting out the door. He never offered any explanation.

And one normal Friday afternoon, she had been absently chattering to him as she copied his notes onto some of her personal music. His handwriting was hard to decipher; she was getting good at it, though she still had occasional trouble.

"I'm so glad that it's Friday," she said. "I need the weekend. Thanks for giving me Saturdays off, by the way. What's this word say? Erik?"

He glanced at the word she was pointing to. "Glissando," he grunted.

"Thanks." She wrote it down. "Anyway, Raoul wants to take me hiking tomorrow because the weather's supposed to be really nice. I'm excited. Can you believe I've never been? Imagine—a Swede that's never been hiking!"

He looked up to her sharply. "You are still with that _boy?_" he snapped.

"Well, yeah," she said, instantly cautious. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because he does not understand your music," Erik replied. "He will sequester you into a dreary suburban life with disgusting children and filthy domestic animals, and the extent of your singing will be that dreadful Brahms lullaby to your shrieking brats."

Christine gaped. "That's…an awful thing to say," she whispered.

"The truth is oftentimes awful," he said, unfazed by her reaction.

"Erik, I—I've told you before. Maybe Raoul doesn't understand why I'm singing, but he supports me. He knows that I want to do this. He wouldn't do any of the stuff you said. If I want to sing, he'll let me."

Erik glared, unconvinced, and said, "It is better for all involved if you end this relationship as quickly as you can."

"I like Raoul," Christine said, getting a little irritated by Erik's continual insults towards her relationship. "I don't want to break up with him."

"It is ultimately in your benefit if you do so," Erik said, his fingers curling into fists.

"Really?" she snapped. "Is it _really_, Erik?"

He stood sharply, and she quelled immediately. At the first sign of serious anger from him, she was cowed. It was then that she reminded herself that he was a _murderer_. He killed people for money. He was not a man to be pressured or pushed. Even though she was no longer _constantly _afraid of him, she knew she needed to always maintain a certain distance and wariness when it came to her masked teacher.

"Really," he hissed at last. She gathered up her things quickly and left, extremely glad that she could spend two days away from him. He somehow riled up emotions that she didn't often feel, and sometimes they scared her a little.

It was always a small relief to go back to Raoul. He was a normal guy, and he didn't kill people. He also wasn't a musical genius, but it probably would have been too much of a good thing if he was.

They spent an enjoyable weekend together, and she was glad to have a small break from the rigid rehearsals and her demanding lessons from Erik. But going to church on Sunday was still a difficult task, and she cried that night.

However, for all the sadness and grief, she was feeling a bit better than she had the week before as she went to rehearsals the next morning. Carlotta Giudicelli was late, as usual, and spent a good deal of time texting on her phone instead of singing. When Mr. Gabriel asked her to put it away and focus, she merely glared at him and returned to what she was doing.

After a difficult rehearsal, Christine stood gratefully, her body stiff from sitting in a chair for so many hours. As she was gathering her things, she suddenly heard,

"Miss Daae? Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Her head snapped up, and she saw Mr. Gabriel watching her. Christine glanced around and then walked down to the chorus-master, anxiety quickly brewing in her stomach. As Mr. Gabriel opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by a tirade of angry Spanish from Carlotta. They both looked over and watched wordlessly as Carlotta yelled at two women. From what Christine could gather from the occasional English sentence, the two women had tittered at her and had bumped into her roughly on purpose. Then Carlotta grabbed her purse and stormed off, still yelling.

Mr. Gabriel sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes for a moment. The rest of the company filtered out as well. Some were laughing at Carlotta.

"As I was about to say, Miss Daae," Mr. Gabriel then said, leaning against the piano, looking tired. "Mr. Reyer said you did an incredible job during your audition. I'm sorry I wasn't able to attend."

"Oh," she said, clutching her things tightly.

"Anyway, I'm sure you're aware of the gala coming up in a couple of weeks."

Christine nodded. True to Mr. Reyer's words, those people who had been selected to sing were notified. Christine had tried not to be disappointed that she wasn't one of them. After all, she was the newest member of the company. It wasn't as if she was going to suddenly get all the solos. And Erik hadn't mentioned it, so she tried not to fret.

"Well, following the gala there's usually a little—not little, really—a party that happens afterward in the Opera's ballroom. You know the kind; those rich, annoying parties with champagne and rented tuxes and ugly dresses and borrowed jewelry…"

"Yeah," she said. She _did _know those parties—all too well.

"It's a time for the patrons to mingle with the performers and the administration of the Opera House," Mr. Gabriel said. "There's usually some light entertainment during it. We have string quartets or jazz pianists or something along those lines. Anyway, this year Mr. Reyer wanted me to ask you if you'd be willing to sing a couple songs during the after-party."

Christine stared at him. "Really?" she said, her voice cracking. She blushed.

Mr. Gabriel smiled a little. "Sure," he said. "Why not? Apparently you've got a good set of lungs. Mr. Reyer was very impressed. And it'd be a nice way to sort of introduce our newest member to our patrons. You don't seem to be the type of girl who'd go out and make sure everyone noticed her…like some of our other company members." They both knew to whom he was referring, but neither offered the name. Mr. Gabriel continued: "So this will be good for you, I think. Just one or two songs, you understand, and nothing distracting. I'm sure a couple nice ballads would do just fine. And you know it's nothing that huge. Don't be offended if only a couple people end up applauding. Most will be busy talking or eating the free food."

Christine giggled a little. "Yeah, I know. Just—wow. Thank you so much! I promise I'll do my best."

He smiled again. "Good, that's what we want to hear. Have a nice afternoon."

She nodded, hurrying toward the door, calling, "You too! Thanks again!"

Feeling elated, Christine ran the entire way to her practice room. She couldn't believe her luck.

Flinging open the door, she cried, "Erik! Guess what?"

He looked up at her, and she rushed in, shutting the door behind her. Dropping her stuff on the floor, she sat on the piano bench to catch her breath and looked up at him.

"Guess what?" she repeated, grinning broadly.

"Pray tell me immediately. I will die if you do not at once," he said dryly, and she laughed again.

"They asked me to sing at the gala—okay, not really _at_ the gala. They want me to sing at the party afterward. But still! Isn't that so exciting? I'm so excited!" She was flushed, and she continued to grin at him. "I was thinking that I could sing my audition song again. It's nice, isn't it? And then I have this other song in mind—Mr. Gabriel said I could sing one or two. It's this really pretty piece from—"

"I have your song here," Erik interrupted, handing over five pages of music. "This is what you will sing."

"Oh." Christine took it and looked it over. "This is okay. But for my other one, can I—?"

He interrupted a second time. "You will only be singing one song."

Her grin dropped a little, and she was confused. "But…wouldn't it be better if I sang two? So that…people heard me more?"

"One song is all you will need, my dear."

"Okay," she said. "If you think so." She hardly ever knew the reasons for the things Erik did, but they usually wielded good results. If he thought that she should only sing one song, she would do so.

After the lesson had ended, Christine gathered up her music and other belongings, watching Erik. It was still a little hard to believe that she took voice lessons from the _Phantom_—yet he sat in front of her, looking very human with his baggy clothing, long limbs, and black mask. She looked at it curiously.

"Hey, Erik?" she said, her heart beginning to hammer as she finally prepared to ask the question that had haunted her for months.

He looked up in response, waiting for her to say something.

"I was just—um. Please don't get mad, okay? I was just wondering…why you're…um, still wearing that mask around me. You know I wouldn't tell the police about you, right?"

His stare made her uncomfortable, and she had to look away and down at the top of the piano.

"If I took off this mask, you would _run _to the authorities," he said.

"What do you mean?" she asked, more confused than ever. "No I wouldn't! I mean…you've done bad things. You—you kill people. But after all you've done for me, I couldn't just…I know you paid all those bills for me. You brought my dad back to me. I couldn't just betray you like that. You really can take it off, I promise."

His bottom lip stretched, and by his eyes, she could tell that he was smiling, though there was no humor in his gaze or posture.

"I will only say this once to you, Christine: you will _never _touch my mask. Is that understood?"

She nodded. "Of course I wouldn't touch it. But…whenever you wanna take it off, that's fine with me."

He chuckled darkly, and it was somehow beautiful and scary. After quickly ensuring that she had everything packed away, she blurted a quick 'goodbye' and rushed out of the Opera House, his words and laughter continually swimming in her mind.


	25. Chapter 25

Christine was feeling completely amazed and thoroughly ashamed.

"Oh, wow," she said softly as she pulled out the dress. "Wow, Erik…This is amazing."

He was silent, watching her as she held the dress against her. She spun around, feeling a little silly but wanting to make him laugh. He didn't even blink.

"Well—what do you think?" she said.

"It will look acceptable, as always," he said.

"'Acceptable,'" she repeated, unable to hide a little smile. "That's good."

The gala was to be held later that week, and she had never been more nervous. She had thought her audition had been nearly traumatizing, but this was…much more intimidating. She would be singing in front of rich patrons and other members of the company who would judge her. Christine often tried to calm herself down by remembering what Mr. Gabriel had told her: most people wouldn't even listen to her.

But Erik couldn't disagree more. "It is to be a smaller unveiling of your exquisite instrument," he had said to her as they worked on her song. "If all goes well, the unworthy masses will be clamoring to hear you after your song."

She had laughed uncomfortably. "I don't want to put too much stock into this one song," she had said. "I'll have lots more chances."

Erik had ignored her and continued saying that the party after the gala was extremely important for her. She needed to do the best she could.

And apparently, Erik didn't want to leave _anything _up to chance. He had given her another gorgeous dress. It was the opposite of her red one—a very dark blue that shimmered slightly when she moved.

"I love it, Erik," she continued to gush. "Thank you so much. You really think of everything." She carefully put the dress back in the box, ensuring that it wouldn't wrinkle. "I'll _never _be able to repay you for everything you've done for me."

"We shall see," he said. "Now put that aside. You need to work several measures of the third verse…"

The weather was warming, and it was also warming the grief in her heart. Life had continued, and although she still missed Gustave with an undeniable ache, she realized that life had not _ended_. She still woke up in the morning and enjoyed breakfast. She still sang and loved music. She still liked Raoul and kisses and hugs. Christine found that she still enjoyed the things she did before—hot tea and books and daydreaming…Her pain from losing her father hadn't taken away all the joy in her life. Sometimes she would realize, with a little burst of emotion, that she was somehow standing without him. It was not impossible. It was incredibly hard, yes, but not impossible. Life was continuing, and she was continuing with it. The music made her happy, and as long as there was music, she could go on.

One afternoon in early April, Raoul dragged her out to the park. It was a beautiful day, and Christine was glad that the weather had decided to change to spring a little earlier in the year. The flowers were beginning to bud, and most trees had tiny green leaves, waiting to grow. They walked some pathways hand-in-hand, and Christine felt incredibly peaceful. This was what Gustave would want for her. He would want her to be safe, happy, and cared for.

After a while of walking, they went into a wide field and lay down on the grass. Christine put her head on his shoulder and watched a man play fetch with his dog.

"Aww!" she exclaimed, pointing. "That dog's so cute."

Raoul turned his head to look and then smiled at her. "I've always wanted a dog," he said. "But my mom's allergic, so we were never allowed to have pets. Still, I'm going to get one when I'm married and in a house of my own." He paused and then said, "Have you ever wanted one?"

"A dog?" She shrugged lightly, playing with the zipper of his sports jacket. "Sure. I guess. I don't know."

He laughed at her and then kissed her. She blushed and said, trying to redeem herself, "I guess I'd like one. They look fun."

They continued to talk a bit about their envisioned future, as they had sometimes done in the past. Christine was a little more careful in what she said, as she now could not imagine a life without singing and music. But Raoul would probably think that that was melodramatic, corny, and…most likely stupid. It was true, though, for however silly it sounded.

After they fell into a comfortable silence, Christine closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the sunshine on her cheek. There was noise all around her; she could hear the dog barking excitedly, two women talking, some kids yelling…It was all dull, comforting noise.

"Hey, Christine?"

She opened her eyes again. "Hmm?" she said.

"I was wondering if you'd given any more thought about Easter."

Frowning a little, she shifted so that her chin was on his shoulder, and she looked up at him. "What do you mean?" she said, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

"Well," he began slowly. "My mom really wants me to come up for the weekend, since all my family will be there. And…I really want you to come, too."

Christine nibbled on her lower lip and reached up to twirl a curl around her finger. "I don't know," she said slowly. "When are you heading up?"

"The Saturday before," he said. "You have weekends off, don't you? You can come!"

She tried desperately to think of a way out. The gala was Friday night, not Saturday, but…Christine wasn't sure that she could face Mrs. de Chagny again, not after what had happened over Christmas. How could Raoul forget about that so suddenly? Christine had never felt more insulted, berated, and hurt in her entire life.

However…she owed it to Raoul. She had been busy lately with rehearsals and her private lessons, too busy to go out to the many dinners or other dates he had invited her on. And his words were continually ringing in her ear: _it takes two people to make a relationship work_. Raoul was doing too much work. It was time for her to step up and make some sacrifices for him, just as he was always doing for her.

"Okay," she said at last, trying her hardest to sound excited. "Sounds good."

"You'll really come?" he said, sounding surprised. "Great! Hey—come on. I'll buy you some ice cream at that parlor over there."

Even though it was probably still too chilly outside for ice cream, she ate it gladly, and he took a picture of her with his phone, laughing at the silly expression she made.

As he was driving her home, he reached over and put a hand on her thigh.

"Hey," he said quietly. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way or get offended or anything…but I'm just really proud of you. I think you're handling your dad's death really well—I mean going out and taking that singing job just a week or so after his funeral and everything…I'm really surprised, and I'm really glad that you're doing okay."

"Heh," she said uncomfortably, staring out of the window. How was she to answer that? The music was healing her, slowly and painfully, but…it was. And though she knew that there would forever be a scar to remind her, the music made her feel closer to him. It made her feel better.

"Didn't you say once that your dad had problems after your mom died?" Raoul then asked.

Christine then realized—Raoul had expected the worst.

"Yeah," Christine said vaguely, still looking at the passing buildings.

"Well, I just want you to know that I'm really proud of you." He rubbed her leg and then put his hand back on the steering wheel.

They made dinner together, and afterward as Christine cleaned up, he went over to look at her small library. She always wanted to expand it, but her recent financial strains had made purchasing a simple paperback novel pretty much impossible.

"I had to read some of these books in high school and college," Raoul commented, pulling some out to examine. "It was torture. I've never been a huge book fan, like you."

"Poor guy," she said sympathetically.

He laughed at that and then looked at the top shelf, pulling out another book. When Christine glanced back and saw what it was, she paled a little and hurriedly set down the plate she was drying.

"What is—is it really?" He was laughing as he opened the pages and looked at the pictures. "Wow! You were a tiny baby."

She went and looked over his arm at the pictures, feeling an urge to blush and another urge to snatch the picture book out of his hands.

"I haven't looked at this in a long time," Christine said absently, lightly touching the corner of a picture. It was Gustave holding her when she was just born. Her pink, scrunched, wailing face was peeking out of a bundle of white blankets.

"Does this bother you?" Raoul then asked. "Me looking at this?"

She shrugged. It did and it didn't. But that didn't make any sense, and so she went with one that _would_ make sense: "No, it's fine."

They went over to the couch, and she curled up beside him as he flipped through the pages, looking at the visual representation of the progression of her infancy and childhood. Christine stared at the pictures of Gustave, noting how incredibly happy he looked in all of them. His face wasn't gaunt, and he didn't have shadows under his eyes. He was a tall, handsome man, simply glad to have a wife and child. Christine felt torn, knowing that he had no idea what was about to happen to him.

She was hesitant about looking at the pictures of her mother.

"Wow, she was pretty. You look just like her," Raoul said as they examined one together. "But you obviously have your dad's hair." Christine managed to smile at that and kept her head nestled on his shoulder.

Christine felt her lips drawing inward when they reached pictures of her fourth birthday. Right after that was when…The pictures now were mostly just of her…Lots of pictures were of her sitting at the foot of a hospital bed, as if the person taking them was situated in the bed. Then there was a huge leap in her age. Raoul seemed confused.

"What?" he said, flipping through some pages. "Did you just have some massive growth spurt after you turned four? What was—oh." He got quiet quickly as he realized. "Sorry," he then said softly.

"It's okay," she said. After her mother got too sick to take pictures, there weren't very many. And there were absolutely no pictures of her when she was five. The picture that next showed up was one of her hugging her father—she was clearly bawling loudly. Christine felt her throat clog a little at the sight. It was the day she had been given back to him. She could remember everything with a perfect clarity. After that, there weren't that many to look through. Gustave usually only took a picture or two on her birthday. She was actually sometimes surprised that he took any at all. Then there was a picture of her grinning nervously in an airport: the day they moved to America. She was lanky and very underdeveloped. And then there were a couple pictures of her when she started high school—a rare one of her and Gustave after one of her choir recitals—and then one of her at her high school graduation. Then the pictures stopped. Raoul closed the book.

They sat in silence for a long time. Christine sensed that he was unsure of what to say. She didn't mind the silence, but she really wanted to be alone suddenly.

"I think I'm going to bed," she said softly, sitting up and stretching. "Thanks for today. It was fun."

"Yeah," he said awkwardly, putting the book down. "Um…have a goodnight, Christine."

He left, and she picked up the book and again looked through the pictures, choking up again as she examined Gustave's jubilant, carefree, happy face as he held her when she was just born. After crying silently for several long minutes, she got angry with herself and tossed the book aside, marching to the bedroom and laying down, closing her eyes resolutely.

But her mind betrayed her, and she dreamed of her _Pappa _and her _Moder_.

* * *

When the night of the gala arrived, Christine had driven herself to near-hysterics. She paced in the practice room, her heels clicking rapidly as she clutched at her arms and stared at the floor. Erik was watching her quietly from the piano, having finished warming her up a few minutes ago. Christine had been much too nervous to sit through the gala itself, and Erik had not objected when she asked if she could just go and practice with him in their room while the gala was being performed. She had heard distant applause several minutes ago, signaling the end of the performance.

Christine then hurried over to the chair and dug through her purse.

"Calm yourself, my dear," Erik said, and she nodded quickly, smearing more gloss onto her lips.

"I know, I know," she said hurriedly, trying to take deep breaths. "I'm just so nervous."

"You will do well," Erik said. "Simply allow the music to live."

She nodded, knowing just what he was talking about. If anyone else had said that to her, they would have sounded crazy, but Erik understood, and he could say it without sounding insane.

Adjusting the straps of her shoes, she asked again, "What time is it? Should I go now?"

"It is not yet time," he said quietly, and she sighed forcefully, straightening up and presenting herself for inspection.

"Does it look okay?" she said, spinning slowly for him. The dress had fit, of course, and it made her skin seem whiter and her hair seem darker. She loved it. Her shoes were silvery and pretty, and Erik had agreed to let wear her (very) short heels, as long as she remembered not to lean too far forward and mess up her breathing.

He looked at her and then said, "Nearly."

Christine frowned a little, looking down at herself. "What's wrong?" she asked.

He walked closer to her, standing just in front, and she resisted taking a few steps back. There was a small pause, and then he held out a small, flat, rectangular box that she hadn't seen him holding before. When he opened it, she literally gasped. Inside were diamond earrings and a necklace—both painfully beautiful.

Erik held it out closer to her, and she hesitated.

"I can't wear those," she said weakly, insanely tempted by the gleaming jewelry. "That's—those are probably real…"

"Of course they are," he said, sounding offended. "You think Erik would give you fake jewels?"

She glanced up at him and was a little startled to see that he was watching her face intently.

"Erik, they're so beautiful," she said, lifting up a hand to touch the necklace lightly. "But…I couldn't take them…I could never repay you for them…"

"They are a gift," he said shortly. "You will wear them."

She was breathless. "A gift?" she whispered. "I can't…this is…"

Raoul had given her jewelry before, but never any diamonds. And maybe it wasn't so much that they were diamonds—it was the fact that _Erik _was giving them to her.

"You will wear them because I wish you to wear them," he said shortly. It almost made her laugh, but she was still a little too shocked by the gleaming diamonds in front of her. With trembling, eager hands, she reached out and pulled them out of the soft, cushioned lining, the weight and feel of the jewelry unfamiliar yet exciting.

She clipped everything on, letting herself momentarily feel like some rich, famous person that wore real diamonds.

"Does it look fine now?" she then said, putting a few shaking fingers on the necklace.

"Yes. Yes. Fine," he said, handing out the accompaniment toward her. "It is time for you to go."

"Okay," she said, clearing her throat hastily when she squeaked on her word and taking the music from him. "Okay. Wish—wish me luck!"

Predictably, he was silent, and he watched her as she went over to the door and opened it with a deep breath. Giving one last glance to him, she forced herself to look forward and step away from the safety of the practice room, heading down the hallways and toward the grand ballroom where the after-party was being held. As she drew closer, she could hear the murmur of conversation and the occasional laughter of the people inside.

Not wanting to enter through the grand double doors and be stared at, Christine hurried off around it and slipped in using one of the lesser-used side doors, emerging just by a circular table that held tall glasses of fizzing champagne. She looked around, noting the pretty dresses and handsome tuxedos of those in attendance. It was strange to see many of the performers all dressed up and talking with the people who were watching the gala. It had almost seemed like the company of the Opera House was a small bubble that was confined to itself, and nothing could enter or exit.

Christine caught sight of the corner in which the piano sat, and she weaved her way through. One or two of the nicer girls in the company waved at her while she passed, and she smiled at them tightly, not wanting to talk and be distracted. This was her moment—Erik had made it clear that _this _was the time.

Mr. Reyer was talking to the pianist, and he nodded at her when he saw her coming.

"Good evening, Miss Daae," he said. "We're glad that you could make it to sing for us."

"Yeah—thanks," she said, almost tripping over her heels as she stepped up onto the small platform. Thankfully, she didn't fall, and she managed to hand Mr. Reyer the music without any further accidents.

Smoothing down the front of her dress and double-checking her jewelry, Christine stood in the bend of the piano and looked out over the couple hundred people in attendance of the party. Only a dozen or so were looking at her expectantly. Some glanced at her and then turned their attention back to their conversations. Most, however, didn't even look as the accompaniment started.

Christine breathed deeply, staring at the back wall so she wouldn't have to look direct at anyone. Thankfully, the introduction was several measures long, giving her a little time to collect herself. This was for Gustave…and herself…and for Erik. He had done all of this for her. He had ensured that her voice was good enough to be here, and his music was still gradually pulling at her, forcing her to live and breathe and feel.

She suddenly wondered if he was in here somewhere, listening to her—though of course he wouldn't be mingling in the crowd, sipping champagne. But still…he'd probably want to be there and make sure she didn't botch her performance…wouldn't he?

The thought somehow bolstered her. If Erik _was_ there, she wanted to make him proud. She wanted one of his rare compliments after her little performance. And that would only come if she did well.

She let the music live and breathe, just as Erik had said. It was just the music. The only other person there was Erik—somewhere. He was the only one who would understand. The pulsing of the song, the life in the music…He knew. And she did. She _was _the music. It was in her, and it _was _her. Her entire being seemed to belong and be the music itself, and she no longer had a physical body. It was just an essence of music. She felt better than she had that afternoon when she first experienced such a thing. This was more, because Erik was listening and hearing her music.

When the song came to an end, Christine fell back to the earth. The present caught up with her, and she blinked a few times, as if surprised that she was there on the small stage. The entire room was staring at her. There was no sound. She began to grow worried. Had she sounded awful? No! No! She had felt it! She knew she had done well!

Then the applause broke out, relieving her, and she was suddenly aware of her body. She felt weak, and her knees were shaking. The applause was only growing, and people began to clamor around the little makeshift stage. Christine felt perspiration form along her brow, and her hands were trembling fiercely.

The song had drained her completely, and now that the music was silent, she didn't feel strong enough to shoulder the weight of it all. She grabbed the piano for support, trying to turn away from the applauding audience. Christine knew that she should have been overjoyed, but at the moment she was hot and sweaty and nauseous. She wanted to lie down somewhere dim and cool…She wanted to talk to Erik more than anything in the world.

"Miss Daae!"

She felt an arm around her waist and a hand latch onto her arm. It was Mr. Reyer.

"I'm fine," she said feebly.

"Come on," he said gently, and he pulled her down and toward some nearby doors. She heard him saying, "Excuse me, please—make room. Please move. Make room. Excuse me."

They were finally out of the crowded ballroom, and Christine let her eyes close for a moment in relief. The hallway they were walking down was dim and cool, just like she wanted.

Mr. Reyer opened a door, and she looked around and realized that it was the room rehearsals were held in. He put her down on one of the chairs and tried to fan her a little.

"Are you feeling all right? You've gone pale."

"I'm fine," she repeated. "Sorry. I don't know what happened."

"Adrenaline, I'm sure," Mr. Reyer said, standing. "You did…a very good job, Miss Daae. Everyone was impressed. I was impressed. It's hard to believe, but you've grown a considerable amount as a singer since you auditioned for us."

"I'm so embarrassed," Christine muttered honestly. She hadn't even been able to walk offstage!

Mr. Reyer smiled kindly. "Just work on your stage presence and keep that adrenaline under some kind of control. Then you would be a near-perfect performer. Anyway. I have to go back to the party now. I'm playing the piano in a few minutes. Are you going to be all right here?"

She nodded, and he stepped away, saying, "Okay. Just rest here a few minutes. When you feel up to it, feel free to come back to the party. I'm positive that there are dozens of people wanting to speak to you." Then he left, the door closing behind him softly. Christine lay down across a couple chairs, her legs dangling off the side but her torso supported. It felt a lot better than sitting up. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to still her racing heart.

The moments passed, and then she sensed him. He was there, and she saw his glowing eyes after looking for them. With a little groan, she pushed herself up to a sitting position.

"Erik," she said tiredly, rubbing at her forehead. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes." His voice was soft, almost like a hiss but not quite as harsh. It was a whisper of a sound. She wanted him to come closer because she didn't like how she could only see his eyes.

"Did I—how did I do? Did I do well?"

"_Yes._" The second one came out like a hiss, long and drawn-out. Christine shivered, and she wasn't sure if it was because she was scared or…something else.

"I sang…for you tonight. Does that make sense? Does it sound stupid? I sang it for you. You're the only one who—who understands."

"I am the only one who understands," he repeated.

Christine touched the diamond necklace, still in awe that such a beautiful piece of jewelry was wrapped around _her _neck. Diamonds—on her!

After a painfully-long pause, Erik approached, and she could see his outline in the dim room. He was watching her steadily.

"Now is the time to be careful," he said, his voice slipping out and encompassing her. "Your potential—your _genius_—is known…There will be those who will envy you, and there will be those who will claim you as their own. Do you understand me, my dear?"

She nodded. Christine did not understand.

"It is time for our real work to begin," Erik said. His voice was so deliciously-soft, and she was practically on the edge of her seat, waiting for him to say something else. She loved listening to him talk. It was like wanting to listen to a talented singer for hours upon hours—yet Erik had such talent in his mere speaking voice. "You must be committed to me now more than ever. I can guide you, but it is only possible if you forego all other temptations and distractions. Fame and genius are fickle, and you cannot do it on your own. You must let go of your regret and grief over your father, and you must give yourself to me fully. I can lead you to things you've never imagined." There was another pause, and his gaze was boring into hers. Christine tried not to blink, not wanting to break this moment.

"Tell me you believe me," he said abruptly.

"I believe you," she replied obediently. "I do, Erik."

His gaze relaxed slightly, and it sounded as if he sighed very softly. Then he whispered,

"I know you do."


	26. Chapter 26

It felt good to be driving fast, away from the big city and its imprisoning buildings. Christine let her eyes close as the wind from the open window ripped through her hair. She imagined that she was flying.

The Saturday morning sun bore down on the BMW, and it warmed her, inside and out. She hadn't ever been this far out of the city, and she opened her eyes to see that they were driving past quaint-looking farms and woods that were just barely turning green.

She looked over to Raoul and couldn't resist smiling a little. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a high-end magazine, with his expensive aviator sunglasses and his windswept blond hair gleaming in the pure morning light.

He had picked her up early that morning, and they had been driving for several hours. She hoped he wasn't mad that she had fallen asleep for most of those hours as soon as they had hit the interstate. However, after picking her up, he had apologized for his lateness—he had spent all morning trying to find his baseball hat which he was _sure _he had left right there in his room. She had looked away guiltily.

Christine still felt a little shocked by last night's events. The performance she had given had shaken her, but most of all…Erik had shaken her. She was afraid and a little confused. What had he meant? He had acted so…not his usual self. Strangely. Abnormally. Why? Erik didn't act like a normal person, but she had become rather used to his abrasive, blunt, rude nature. Then last night he went and confused her again. Not that she had been acting normally. The moment had been…surreal. She had said some things that she was now embarrassed to even think about.

Something touched her hand, and she jumped a little before realizing that it was Raoul. He took her hand in his and squeezed her fingers lightly in a gesture of affection. It was easy with Raoul. He usually always let her know what he was thinking, whether it was through words or touches or body language. But Erik…was an entirely new realm. The only emotion he seemed good at emanating was angered irritation. Everything else was a complete mystery to her. She didn't know how to decipher the new expressions in his eyes.

Christine looked out over some rolling hills. It reminded her of Sweden a little bit. Of course, her memories of Sweden were probably a little romanticized, as she hadn't seen her native country in over ten years, but…still. It was relaxing to think of such a perfect place. There had to be _one _perfect place in the world, right? She needed that place to exist.

Thankfully most of the drive there was in comfortable silence, as the wailing of the wind rushing through the rolled-down windows prevented any relaxed conversation. Christine was glad for this time. She wanted to think, and she got the opportunity to.

She vowed to herself not to listen at any doors over the weekend. Even though Mrs. de Chagny would probably talk about her behind her back, Christine didn't want to know what she would say. Whatever Mrs. de Chagny would say would only end up making her completely miserable again. Christine was doing this for Raoul. She didn't want to throw another tantrum and make the entire weekend about her.

When Raoul pulled up to the house at last, she gaped at it, a little unbelieving. It was the biggest house she had ever seen, a gray-brick mansion with huge columns and pillars supporting a wide balcony. A sweeping driveway greeted them, and the walkway was lined with bushes and flowers, all pruned and primped to perfection. Other cars, similar in style to Raoul's, were also parked in the driveway.

"Wow," she finally said. "This is…amazing."

Raoul laughed a little. "Yeah, it's a little much, isn't it? I've never wanted anything this big. But my parents don't know a thing about subtlety, which is weird, you know, because they have old money."

He parked the car and then opened her door for her, taking her hand and leading her up the perfect walkway.

"Hey," he said softly as they went. "I know you think my mom doesn't like you, but she really does. She just takes a while to warm up to new people, okay? So don't worry about this weekend. It'll be fine."

Christine nodded, not trusting herself to speak lest she suddenly burst out and tell him that she had heard everything Mrs. de Chagny had said on Christmas Eve. That would only create more tension. So she kept her lips shut tight and allowed him to lead her inside. She followed him, almost timidly, into a large marble foyer. Raoul shut the door behind her and shouted, "I'm home!"

Almost immediately, a door to the left of them burst open, and several children tumbled out, all shrieking and screaming. Christine, not exactly used to children, shimmied behind Raoul a little as they all swarmed around him, jumping at him and pulling on his shirt. They were all clamoring for his attention, and he was handling it with all the charming charisma that he possessed. Confidence just bubbled up from him, and Christine envied him for it.

The door opened again, and three other women came out as well. Christine paled to see Mrs. de Chagny leading them, her red lips frowning a little as she observed the scene. Christine ducked behind Raoul again, wondering just what new scathing thing Mrs. de Chagny could form out of seeing this situation.

"Go on!" Mrs. de Chagny snapped, shooing away the kids. "Go on outside and play!"

Groaning childishly and dragging their feet, the children shuffled out. Raoul reached for Christine and pulled her around with a grin. Then there were awkward introductions. Mrs. de Chagny was there, of course, and the two other women were Raoul's sisters, and they were both as gorgeous as Raoul. One of them was obviously pregnant. They three of them were immaculately dressed and perfectly groomed. Christine was very aware of her frizzy, windblown hair and raw, red face.

The four of them spoke for a while, and Christine stood silently by Raoul's side, squished under his arm and unable to escape.

They talked a little bit about what Christine gathered was an Easter party that was going to be held tomorrow morning. She nearly groaned aloud. Why did she always end up going to fancy rich party? She resisted sighing and instead clutched Raoul's arm a little tighter, resolving herself. She was here for him, not herself, and she would enjoy herself and smile.

"Well," Mrs. de Chagny finally said, clapping her hands together but careful with her long fingernails. "I'll send someone out to get your luggage. Why don't you show Christine to her room so she can…uh, freshen up a bit."

Christine blushed as well as fumed inwardly. She could be upset, but she was also becoming angry as well. Maybe Erik was rubbing off on her…

Raoul took her hand and pulled her off after another minute, and he led her through the huge house.

She looked in the rooms they passed with interest. Everything was so clean, so perfect. A gentle beige was the master color, with different accents in each room: crimson reds, pale greens, browns, and other rich colors. All the furniture in each room matched. Tables and chairs obviously came together. The houses she had lived in had had furniture that was an odd assortment of what they managed to get over the years. Woods certainly did not match, neither did the walls with the furniture.

"Your home is really nice," she complimented.

"Thanks—but it's not really mine. It's my parents'. And my older brother actually inherits it."

"Oh," Christine said. She didn't know what else to say. _Sorry _that he didn't get a huge mansion?

"No, I'm glad," he said. "I don't want it. I've always wanted a smaller house, you know. One that wouldn't drive my wife crazy trying to keep clean." He laughed and squeezed her hand again, and a strained smile stretched her lips.

She followed him to a door down a hallway, and he opened it, saying, "This is our room."

Christine looked at him sharply. "Ours?" she questioned, trying not to sound too upset.

"Well, yeah," he said, looking a little uncomfortable. "I mean, we're dating, so my parents put us in the same room…"

"You knew they did, but you didn't say anything?" She didn't want to nag or pester, but…this topic had already caused problems in their relationship.

Raoul rubbed his face a little and said quietly, "I just didn't want it to be a big thing, all right? Nothing's going to happen. Okay? So will you please stop acting like I'm going to rape you or something? It makes me feel really bad that you keep thinking that."

Christine blinked, hurt by his short comments. She put a hand to her throat before remembering where her necklace was, and then she looked at the ground.

There was silence, but Raoul didn't apologize like she expected. Instead he said, somewhat bitterly, "I'll sleep somewhere else if you really want me to."

"It's okay," she said quietly. "We can sleep in here."

There was another pause, and then he said, "Okay. Good. Fine. It'll be fine, okay?"

"Yeah," she said softly.

A few minutes of awkward pauses followed, but eventually he reached over and took her hand to let her know that he had forgiven her and that he wanted them to be comfortable again.

Even though it was still spring, he took her out to their backyard, which was huge and sweeping. Several large, white tents were set up, and Christine assumed that they were in preparation for the party tomorrow. He took her around and showed her their pool (drained because of the weather) and their garden and other things that Christine found interesting and little awe-inspiring. She had no idea that his family was _this _rich.

Finally, he took her over to a section of the wide, sweeping lawn that was covered with large trees, and they sat by one.

"Won't your family be mad that you're not inside, talking to them?" she asked.

"Nah," he said easily. "They're all just in there, gossiping and talking about what they're going to wear tomorrow."

"I thought you had a brother, too," she said.

"Phil? Yeah." He shifted closer to her, and she couldn't help but feel a little lightheaded. He smelled amazing, like usual, and his shirt was thin, so when she put a hand on him she could feel his warm skin and muscles. "He'll be here tomorrow morning."

The next long while was what she blushingly thought of as 'prime make-out time.' Their long, heavy kisses were making her flushed, though she couldn't deny that she felt a hot, excited churning in her stomach. Raoul was handsome and his skin was smooth and his hands were strong, and she enjoyed the feel of them on her waist and back and hips.

They were interrupted sometime later by soft footsteps, and one of Raoul's sisters came up to them, scowling a little.

"Hey!" she snapped. "We've been looking for you everywhere."

Christine quickly unwound her arms from around his neck, feeling sheepish and embarrassed.

"What?" Raoul said back. He looked unfazed.

"We have dinner ready, and it's getting cold while we're waiting for you. Hurry up."

"We'll be there in a sec, okay?" After his sister left, he sighed a little and then gave Christine one last lingering kiss.

As she quickly cleaned herself up for dinner, her mind wandered to Erik. She wondered what he was doing, how he was spending his weekend. He'd probably be angry to know that she had already spent a good deal of time making out with her boyfriend—anything at all that distracted her from her music made him upset. Still, she reasoned that it was good to have this time with Raoul. He deserved it after putting up with her distance for so long. And she really did like him. A lot.

Later that night, she was sitting at the wide bay window, feeling the night breeze brush her skin. She was alone, and it felt good. Raoul was down catching up with his family, and she could hear occasional laughter or excited talk. She had feigned tiredness and had gone to bed early. Dinner had been a struggle because of his mother.

If she was very quiet, she could hear the faint sounds of the ocean. It was still too cold to go to the beach, but she hoped that she would catch a glimpse of it before she left. The scent was unique and distinctive, though it was muffled over the distance. Christine rubbed her forehead, sighing a little. Her heart felt heavy; she missed Gustave. She had so much in her life at the moment, but it still felt empty without him. She had wanted him to be there for her first performance, but now she had to content herself with his watching from Heaven. He was up there…with his wife.

Christine rubbed at her stinging eyes and then huffed out another sigh, standing up and shutting the window firmly. Crying was not going to bring Gustave back. Crying didn't do anything but make her nose run and her face swell up. With a last glance to the window, she went over to the wide bed, curled up under the soft blankets, and fell asleep.

* * *

The next afternoon, Christine was standing in front of the mirror in dejection. Everything had turned out worse than she had imagined.

She had met Raoul's older brother—Philippe—at breakfast that morning and had proceeded to embarrass herself by spilling half of her eggs into her lap. His brother had laughed at her, and after that she had gone up to dress and primp a little before the party. Raoul had entered and then had gasped a little.

"Argh! I completely forgot!" he had said, clapping a hand to his forehead. "You have to wear white or cream for the party today. And I forgot to tell you."

"There's a dress code?" she had asked, feeling a little miffed. She had brought her pretty blue dress that she had worn at the gala and had been looking forward to wearing it again on Easter Sunday. "This is all I brought!"

"I know. I know. I'm sorry. Here. Lemme see what I can do." He had disappeared for ten minutes, and she had reluctantly taken off her dress.

When he returned, he had said, "Here. This is my mom's, and she said that it'll work." She took it with a nod of thanks, and he had left to let her change quickly.

And now she was dressed in Mrs. de Chagny's something that would 'work.' But it wasn't working. It was an old, moldy-looking, unflattering dress, adorned with thick lace. Christine pulled at it. It was completely shapeless and smelled like mothballs. It had to be at least twenty years old, something Mrs. de Chagny might have worn then. Christine wouldn't be surprised if Mrs. de Chagny had given it to her on purpose.

The door opened again, and Raoul stuck his head in, smiling at her.

"Hey!" he said. "You look—"

"Like I'm wearing a doily," she interrupted, tugging at the short sleeves. Raoul laughed.

"Maybe a little. But you make it look pretty. C'mon. The party's started, and my mom will throw a fit if we don't at least show up."

Christine walked over to him, trying to resolve herself to just grit her teeth and get it all over with. He led her back through the huge house, and Christine held his hand tightly. This time tomorrow, she would be back at rehearsal. She would even be grateful for the sounds of Carlotta Giudicelli's temper tantrums. Anywhere but here…They stepped out into the huge backyard.

It was like that awful work party he had made her go to, except…even worse. This place seemed even _richer _than his work party. Everyone was dressed up beautifully in the allowed colors, and she looked around, knowing that she wouldn't recognize anyone. Raoul held her hand and pulled her around some groups of people. He got her a glass of lemon water, and she took it with a murmured thanks, sipping it and standing near him.

To her embarrassment, there began to be almost a line of people waiting to see and talk to him. And she noticed, with further discomfort, that most of them were young women, like herself, only they seemed confident and sure and wealthy, and they were all incredibly beautiful. Raoul greeted them all with the natural charm and charisma he seemed to possess, and he was the epitome of politeness and friendliness. Sometimes he'd exclaim over a girl and hug her, introducing her to Christine as his old friend. Christine merely nodded blankly, not even bothering to remember their names.

They were all extremely flirty, she noticed after a while. They flicked their hair and flashed their white, perfect smiles, giggling at his lighthearted comments and touching him enough to make her uncomfortable. Raoul either didn't notice, didn't mind, or didn't want to make a scene. She hoped it was the latter. Still, she supposed it was only natural. She knew that he was a catch, and these girls lining up to greet him were probably devising ways to 'peg him.'

She stood there beside him, sipping glass after glass of lemon water to give her something to do. Then they slowly migrated over to a small white table, and she sat on one side of him while the other side was always occupied by another young woman who was subtly demanding his attention. As soon as the chair was vacated, another woman swooped in and sat down, crossing a long, tanned leg over the other and leaning over to put a hand on Raoul's arm and exclaiming that she hadn't seen him in the longest time.

After a while, she set her glass down on the table and waited impatiently for the pretty blonde girl talking to Raoul to leave. Christine endured a boring story about the blonde girl's recent trip to the Bahamas and another one about her last semester at Yale. Then she finally left, and Christine reached over quickly before another girl came and talked to him. She squeezed his hand to get his attention, and he looked at her.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she muttered.

"Do you need me to show you where it is?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"I'll be fine," she said.

"Are you sure?" he pressed. "It's no problem."

"I'll be _fine_," she repeated firmly. She didn't need him to hold her hand for _everything_. And…she was feeling a little annoyed at the moment. She didn't really want to be around him.

"Okay. If you say so."

Christine stood and walked past all the white tables and all the gorgeous people. She glanced over her shoulder to see that Raoul was talking to _two_ more pretty girls, and she forced her face forward. The house was cool, and it sounded very empty. Thankfully, her shoes didn't click as she walked across the hardwood floors, and she looked around for nearly five minutes before locating a bathroom. It was large and spotless, and after she washed her hands she spent a few minutes guiltily and curiously rummaging through the cupboards, opening little decorative porcelain boxes and peering into vials and vases, prolonging the time before she would have to go back outside. In one drawer, she found an old-fashioned bottle of perfume, and she looked at it before squirting it. It sprayed directly into her face with more force than she had anticipated, and she gagged and coughed for a few minutes, rinsing her mouth out with water from the sink. The perfume was musky and reminded her of grandmothers.

Taking that as her signal to leave the bathroom, she emerged after ensuring once more that her dress wasn't caught in any embarrassing places and that her hair was still somewhat-managed.

As she tried to find her way to the back door, she started walking through rooms that were completely unfamiliar. Feeling silly for getting lost so easily, she nevertheless continued to look, though she had a suspicion that she was only getting _more_ lost.

Still, it was interesting to wander through the house without Raoul by her side and without fearing that his mother would be in one of the rooms she wandered through. She paused in one of the rooms, noting the pictures on the wall. She smiled a little as she looked at them. It wasn't hard to tell Raoul apart, as he was always the youngest by far and had the lightest hair out of his siblings. There were several professionally-done family portraits, and she lightly touched a few of them. A couple pictures were also very informal, some of them of Raoul as a boy, grinning goofily at the camera with a smile full of missing teeth. She smiled back at them as well.

The pictures led her over to a small nook, and she looked into it interestedly. There was a window hidden from the rest of the room by a large bookshelf, and beneath the window was a cushioned bench. Christine slid over to it and peered out of the lacy curtains. It looked out into the back gardens, and she could easily see the people at the party, all still talking and laughing in that…rich way.

She kneeled down on the bench and put her chin in her hands, simply watching for a while. She felt no desire whatsoever to return there. Raoul probably wouldn't even notice if she didn't go back. He was so occupied with the line of pretty girls anxious to talk to him.

With a little angry grunt, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. She knew it wasn't his fault, not at all. He was just trying to be polite, but even still, she couldn't help the indignant feeling. And that made her feel childish as well. After sitting there for another few minutes, her mind drifted back to the Opera House, and again she wondered what Erik was doing. Maybe he was composing again. Or...working. She grimaced at that. Would Erik grow angry if she talked to him about that? Probably. Still, it was always hard for her to acknowledge and think that her genius teacher, the man who gave her diamonds, killed people for money. And in turn, that money was given to her. People's lives were paying for her apartment and food and clothing.

As she sat there, she picked up on the sound of footsteps, and she froze slightly, forcing her breathing to become nearly silent.

The footsteps neared the room, and she heard the door open.

"Christine?"

It was Raoul—the only person in the whole world who would wonder where she was. Christine debated for a few moments about whether or not to come out of the nook. She was a little embarrassed that she had so adamantly said that she didn't need his help to find her way around when she obviously was lost. Giving a silent huff, she was just about to leave when she heard another set of footsteps and a voice.

"Hey! What are you doing here?" It was a male voice, and after a second she realized that it was Raoul's older brother, Philippe.

"I'm looking for Christine," Raoul said. "You haven't seen her anywhere, have you?"

"No," Phil said. "I've been out back. Mom sent me to find you and bring you back."

Realizing that she had waited too late to reveal herself, Christine sat back down on the bench, resigning herself to a few more minutes of hiding until they left and she could sneak out and try to again find her way back to the party and pretend that she had been there all along.

"I'll come back as soon as I find Christine," Raoul said.

"Did she get lost?" Phil said with a laugh. "It seems like something she'd do."

"Yeah, she's funny that way," Raoul said. "I asked her if she needed me to show her the way, but of course she says no, and now she's probably managed to wander all the way up here."

They laughed, and Christine blushed in embarrassment and anger. She hoped that they would go away, but they remained. In fact, she heard the slight groan of furniture; they must have sat down on the sofas in the room.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Phil said. "How's it going with her?"

"Did Mom put you up to this?" Raoul said.

"Am I that obvious?" Phil said, laughing. "But seriously, bro. Just between you and me, I promise. How're things going?"

"Fine," Raoul said easily. "You can tell Mom that, too."

"I'll have to tell Mom _something_," said Phil. "She hates that you're dating someone who isn't even going to school, you know."

"Of course I know that," Raoul said. "And I've been trying to get Christine to go, too, but she's so hung up on this singing thing. It's hard, you know, watching her waste all this time."

Christine felt her heart constrict, and her throat grew dry. It hurt to think that Raoul sincerely believed that she was _wasting _her time with singing. He didn't know. He didn't know anything about Erik's music.

"Well, what can you do," Phil said, sounding every bit the older brother. "Honestly, I was surprised when Mom told me about her. But of course Mom would describe her in the worst way. I never thought you'd go for girls like that—guess I was wrong! Tell me what she's like."

Raoul said, "She's really great."

"C'mon, you can tell me," Phil said jovially. "You know, I dated a girl like her a long while ago—one of those little religious girls. They're fun for a little while, but the novelty wears off. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Raoul said, sounding absentminded. "But Christine is pretty awesome. I really like her."

"Oh, I see," Phil said, sounding somewhat gleeful. Christine felt her heart now pounding in her throat, and she glanced outside, seeing that the party was still continuing in its banality.

"She's pretty good-looking," Phil then said.

"She's beautiful," Raoul said, and Christine let herself smile a little at that, though she still felt a little sick from his earlier comments.

"I guess," Phil said, and his tone was indicative that he was probably shrugging with his comment. "If you're into the whole china doll look. Still, she's got a great pair of legs."

"Hey!" Raoul said. "Lay off. She's _my _girlfriend."

"And you can have her," Phil replied. "She looks nice, but she's…quiet. I dunno. She's really different than the other girls you've dated."

"Yeah," Raoul agreed. He laughed. "That's probably why I like her so much." There was a pause, and then Raoul said, "I'm gonna tell you something, and you're gonna laugh at me, but…whatever. Christine _is _really different than the other girls I've dated, and it took me a while to figure out why I liked her so much, but I finally did get it."

"What is it?" Phil said.

Raoul paused again, and Christine listened carefully, feeling her heart in her throat.

"Those other girls," Raoul began. "They would all say that they don't need a guy to take care of them or look after them—they would always tell me that they could make it on their own. But Christine has never said that. I don't know…This sounds pretty stupid, but I really like that about her. She needs a guy to take care of her, and I think she knows it. She's never pretended that she could be alone. And…well, after dating all those girls, it's a little bit of fresh air. It's like…I'm worth something to her, y'know?"

Phil made a noise in his throat, signifying him to continue.

"Anyway, maybe I'm being really sexist or something, but I feel better about myself when I'm around her. She just…is like a real _girl_. She doesn't pretend to be anything else, like the other girls I've dated."

Phil said, "I'm happy for you, bro. I really am. But listen to me. I'm a lot older than you, and I've had a lot more experience with women. I'm just saying that Mom is on the warpath. You getting married is the only thing she thinks about nowadays. You're the last chance to pass on our _great _de Chagny name."

"She gave up on you, did she?" Raoul said.

Phil laughed. "Yeah, like ten years ago, remember? But you're her last chance. Did you know that the only reason she wanted you to come up here was for this stupid garden party? She's been planning it for weeks. She wanted all these women to be here for you."

Raoul groaned. "Typical, Mom," he muttered. "Phil, I know I'll get married—probably soon, too." He sighed and then said, "Can I tell you something else?"

"Sure," Phil grunted.

"I was actually planning to propose to Christine a while ago," Raoul said. "I have the ring and everything. But the week after I bought the ring, her dad disappeared, and Christine…Well, she kind of fell apart at that. And it's been one huge thing after another—those stupid voice lessons, and then her dad's death, and now her singing…I can't seem to find the right time. And even if I did, I don't know if she'd accept anymore. She's been really out of it lately."

There was a long silence. Christine was afraid that they would hear her pounding heart. Raoul was…He had planned to _propose? _He had wanted her as his wife? It seemed so incredibly bizarre…so unreal…

"Wow," Phil said. "You really want to marry her?"

"Yeah, I do," Raoul said. "I really do. I mean…Phil, I even had a house picked out for us and everything. I love her."

"Wow," Phil murmured again.

"But it's just this _stupid _singing thing. She has this crazy voice teacher who tells her that singing is her destiny or something. It drives me crazy. She's going to spend her whole life stuck in a chorus, and then she's going to realize that she wasted all this time when she could have gone to school and done something with her life. The last thing I want to do is tell her to do something she doesn't want to. If she wanted to sing as a hobby or as a side-thing, great. But she wants to sing for her _career_. It's stupid, but for some reason she just won't realize it. What am I supposed to do, Phil?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Phil said comfortably. "She sounds dead-set on wasting a couple of years trying. Maybe you need to just let her."

"But then I'd have to be there when she falls apart again. She keeps setting herself up to get hurt like this because she has no idea what she's doing or talking about. You invested in that theater a couple years ago—you know what it's like. Christine has no connections; she doesn't know anyone, but she thinks that she can get by with talent alone. It's sad."

"Well, didn't you say once that you didn't care if your future wife worked or not?" Phil said. "You have enough money to get you both by. And maybe in a couple years once you start having kids she'll understand what you're saying. Then she'll stop thinking that it's her fate to be some big star."

Raoul sighed a little. "Yeah, maybe…I just hate seeing her get all worked up for something and then it doesn't work out. She's gotten hurt a lot, and it's like she's just walking into it with this thing."

"Maybe it would be—" Phi began, but Christine never got to hear what it would be, because the ringing of a phone interrupted them. For one heart-stopping second, she thought that it was her phone, but then Raoul sighed heavily.

"It's Mom," he said, and the shrill ringing was suddenly silenced. "She'll want us to come back to the party."

"Might as well," Phil said, and the furniture groaned again as they stood. "There were a couple of blondes that were checking me out."

"Phil!" Raoul said, sounding half-exasperated and half-amused.

"Hey, if you don't want them, I'll be more than happy to take them," Phil replied, his voice becoming more distant as well as the sound of their footsteps. "And you can go off and live that life of domestic bliss with Christine…"

After a few more moments, it was completely silent once again.


	27. Chapter 27

Christine's heart was racing, and she hurried through the hallways of the Opera House. She couldn't wait to get to Erik and tell him. Maybe he'd give her one of his infrequent compliments. He _had _to know that those simple words could brighten any day. Spoken by him, a soft 'good' or 'well done, my dear' could make everything seem so much better. And she needed that, especially today.

As she turned into a different hallway, she was suddenly thrown off-balance, and she realized that she had literally run into someone. Her nose began to throb immediately, meaning she must have smacked it, and she held it, her eyes scrunched up in pain.

"Ouch," she said. "Sorry!"

"No—it's my fault. Oh, no! Are you okay?"

Christine blinked, her eyes watering just a little, and she saw a pretty blonde girl sitting beside her.

"I'm okay," Christine said, trying to smile. "_Ow_—no, I mean I'm fine. Sorry I ran into you."

The blonde girl said, "I wasn't watching where I was going! I'm really sorry. Here, let me help you."

The girl seized her arm and dragged her up. Christine continued to cradle her nose. It smarted, and it felt like her entire brain was hurting as well.

"Sorry again. Hey, wait—aren't you that singing girl? The one who sang at the party?"

Christine nodded. The blonde girl was an inch or two shorter than she was and was dressed in a black leotard and thick white tights. Ballet slippers were dangling from her hand; it didn't take that long for Christine to figure out that the girl was probably a member of the Opera's small but renowned ballet corps.

"Wow," the blonde girl said. "I heard you. You were amazing! It's Christine, right?"

Christine nodded again. "Thanks," she said thickly.

"I wish I could sing like you. I have a really bad voice, though. Oh, I'm Meg Giry. I dance in the ballet here." The blonde girl looked around and then said, "Are you lost? You're new, aren't you? Your rehearsals just got over. The exit is the other way, you know."

"I know," Christine said, wanting to inch around this girl and get away to Erik. "I'm back here for more practice."

Meg Giry grinned. "Dedication!" she said. "Me too. I need to get a few steps cleaned up. My mom's the ballet mistress, you know, and you'd think it'd be easier for me, but _nooo_…She's way mean to me. So I have to practice more than anyone else!"

"Sorry," Christine said, unsure of what else to say and not feeling particularly chatty at the moment. "And sorry for running into you. Um, I'd better go now…I'm late."

"Oh, yeah," Meg Giry said. "So am I. Well, hopefully I'll catch you later!" She waved and ran off, her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders as she went. Christine waited until the light sound of her footsteps faded, and then she resumed her own journey. As she walked, she felt her nose pound with every step, and then she groaned when she felt a warm wetness on her fingers and palm.

Erik's rich voice greeted her when she walked into the practice room. "You are late, my dear."

"I know," she said, wiping at her nose. "I'm sorry. I…um, had a little problem on my way here. Erik—can you…?" She let her hand drop, revealing the blood dripping out of her nose, and Erik pointed wordlessly to the nearby chair. After she was seated, he approached and pulled out his handkerchief. It had saved her so many times, and she made a note to get one somewhere and carry it around with her.

"Gently," he said, and Christine pressed it to her nose, tilting her head back.

"_No_," he snapped. "Tilt your head forward. Otherwise blood will go to your throat." She did as he said, and he then said, "There."

As she sat there, waiting for the bleeding to stop, she looked up at him and couldn't help but giggle weakly. She felt a little silly, but her embarrassment was far outweighed by the polar emotions racing through her. Sadness and joy were battling for supremacy.

"This wasn't how I wanted to tell you," she then said. "But…guess what, Erik?"

"You know how much I enjoy guessing games," he said, his sarcasm biting, and his dry humor made her laugh just a little.

"Well—I just can't believe it! Mr. Reyer talked to me after rehearsals today. And—and guess what? They told me that I'm playing Barbarina in Figaro! Isn't that crazy?"

Erik's bottom lip stretched a little. "Yes, I am aware. You will do very well, I am sure. It will mean many hours of hard work, but I will ensure that you are perfection itself."

Christine continued to sit there, holding the handkerchief up still, her mind spinning as she realized just what it meant. "I can't believe it," she repeated. "I mean…it's my first production! I hope nobody is angry at me. I didn't even audition for it. I was happy enough to be in the chorus."

"You are not meant for the chorus," Erik said. "I have told you countless times."

She smiled. "I know, but it's hard to believe. I'm a nobody, really…and now I have this role that I didn't even try for. It's weird to think that." She checked her nose—it was still bleeding a little. To avoid an awkward silence while waiting for the blood to stop, Christine then asked him, "Did you have a good weekend?"

He looked at her sharply and then said, somewhat stiffly, "It was…productive."

There was a pause, and Christine didn't want to think about what 'productive' meant. Had he killed more people? His murder money was going straight to her pocket. Throughout the past several weeks, _all _of her bills had been taken care of—the hospital bills, the rent, _and _the funeral bills. No one was sending her rude letters, reminding her that she owed them money. Every two weeks, somehow Erik left her money so she could buy food and other necessities. She didn't like to think of it. It made her extremely upset. Somehow, telling him that she hoped he had had a happy Easter didn't seem as appealing anymore.

"That's good," she said at last. "Mine was…lousy."

"What has upset you?" Erik said.

Christine glanced at him. She was glad he had asked, because she needed to tell someone what had happened. Raoul's comments had been echoing around in her head, as well as the events that followed the day after.

She sighed a little, defeated. "Raoul said some really hurtful things over Easter," she said, watching the floor. "He didn't know I could hear him. But I still…He doesn't get it. I don't think he ever will…So I broke up with him."

There was a long pause, and Christine continued to stare miserably. It had been an awful weekend. Raoul had been so stunned and so hurt—it was obvious.

"What did I do?" he kept asking. "Why? Everything was going so well…"

"I'm so sorry," she had said, nearly in tears. "It's just not…working."

He had tried to ask what _wasn't _working, and Christine did her best to explain—but it wasn't done well.

"I can't be with—I…" She had stammered, pulling on a curl and trying her best not to let her voice crack with emotion. "Raoul, you're an amazing man. You really are. But I just—this relationship is just not working. You deserve someone better than me. You really do."

He had protested, saying that that wasn't true, but she had taken a deep breath and had been firm.

"You'll realize it as soon as you start dating other girls again," she had said. "I'm so sorry for…everything. You were there for me through the whole…thing…with my dad and everything. Thank you so much. But I just—I can't let you date me when there's someone better for you."

And she had finally realized that it was true. Raoul had been her crutch, because she was too afraid to be without one. Guilt bubbled up in her chest. She had used him endlessly, and he was too good to even be angry about it.

Christine had cried soundly afterward, feeling a deep pain her chest. Was it really all for the best? Couldn't Raoul…was it possible for him to make up not understanding her music by being virtually perfect in every other sense? But his words to Phil had hurt her more deeply than she wanted to admit. Erik then spoke, bringing her back to the present. "That is excellent news. You will progress beyond your wildest dreams now that you are unfettered and unattached. That boy did nothing but drag you down."

"That's not fair," Christine said softly. "He was a good man. He helped me so much."

"You clung to him and would not let yourself see how strong you can be without him. The _music_ can make you strong. Don't you see? The music is the only thing that matters."

She checked and saw that her nose had stopped bleeding. With a little sigh, she put her hand over her eyes, trying to sort everything out. Everything felt wrong, and yet somehow she felt lighter than she had in weeks. Raoul did not _drag her down_, but he certainly did not support her when she tried to soar with her music.

Soft footsteps drew nearer, and she sensed Erik standing directly in front of her.

"The music that runs in your blood also runs in mine, Christine," he said. "We are the same."

* * *

It was a relief to spend so long at rehearsals. Christine hated being alone in her apartment for longer than strictly necessary. She was usually one of the first people to show up at rehearsals, and she left long after everyone else did because of her lessons with Erik. They had started to run longer and longer, but she would not complain. Being alone made her think of things, and those things hurt to think about.

Being truly by herself was harder than she thought. Most of her time at her apartment was spent curled up on the large window bench, staring out to the Opera House, counting down the hours until she could go back and drown herself in music.

She thought about Raoul a lot, wondering what he was doing, how he was feeling. Was he looking for a new girlfriend already? Or would he wait for a while? Whatever he did, she guessed that she would never know. People didn't usually keep in touch with their exes…did they? And it wasn't as if she could call him up for a friendly chat and ask if he'd met someone yet. It'd reek of desperation, and it would be even worse because _she _was the one who had broken it off. Raoul had wanted to marry her…and she'd shut him down. No. Raoul was out of her life now.

The thought was painful.

After all he had done for her, she had simply pushed him away. It was a hard thing to swallow.

Christine had those thoughts swimming around in her head as she walked into rehearsal one morning. She sat in her usual chair—near the back—and pulled out her score, humming a little absentmindedly, trying to busy herself and stop thinking of Raoul. She had had a dream about him the night before. She couldn't remember just what exactly it was about, but he had been in there.

Other people were filtering in, and a few of them said a very polite 'good morning' to her. She nodded and smiled a little in return, though she didn't feel like really talking to anyone at that moment.

As she was looking over her lines, trying to sort out the Italian, something lightly brushed her arm, and she looked over to see that someone had sat next to her. It was Carlotta Guidicelli, and she was looking at her and smiling widely. Christine stared.

"Hello…" she said hesitantly.

"Morning, _Querida_," Carlotta said, her perfect teeth glinting. "You are feeling good today?"

Christine nodded, completely confused. "I'm good. Thanks."

"That is good." Carlotta continued to smile, and Christine stammered out something. However, by then Mr. Gabriel had arrived, and they began with some warm-ups. Thankfully, Christine wasn't talented enough to talk and sing at the same time, so she quickly engrossed herself in the scales so that she wasn't outright ignoring the Prima Donna.

As the rehearsal began and the trickier parts were being picked apart, Carlotta turned to Christine once again.

"You are playing Barbarina?" Carlotta asked.

Christine nodded, tucking some curls behind her ear. "Yep. I'm…excited."

"That is good. It's good to be excited." She was dressed stylishly, and her beautiful dark hair was swept away from her sculpted face. "Have you ever sung in any place before?" Carlotta then asked. "I sing in Spain and then London some years ago, but now I am here."

"Oh, that's nice," Christine said. "I haven't sung anywhere else. I'm still…you know, learning and everything. I'm not a professional like you."

Carlotta laughed loudly, and a few people turned to give them annoyed looks. Christine ducked behind her score, staring at the music.

"You are too kind, _Querida_," Carlotta said. "You have beautiful voice. I hear you at the gala."

"Thanks," Christine muttered. "But I'm still training…trying to become as talented as you. Heh."

Carlotta smiled widely. "Then you are training with someone? Who is your teacher?"

"Oh." Christine felt a panicked flush begin to warm her neck. "Just…um, someone…"

She glanced up and saw that Mr. Gabriel was looking over in their direction with annoyance. Christine held up her score again and sang a few lines with the rest of the ensemble.

"Who is it?" Carlotta asked. "Your teacher must be very talented. Would I know this teacher?"

"I don't think so," Christine said vaguely. "He's really…private. He doesn't teach a lot of other people."

"Perhaps he would think of meeting me," she pressed, her accent thick and rolling. She rummaged around in her huge purse and then pulled out a small card. It was embellished with her name in a flowing script and had a phone number underneath it. "Perhaps he will give me a call."

Christine took the card carefully and forced a smile. "Yeah, maybe…I'll give it to him."

Thankfully, their lunch break followed shortly after, and Christine sighed a little in relief as everyone stood and began shuffling out. She grabbed her bag and followed the crowd out the door. For her small midday break, Christine always walked the couple blocks back to her apartment and ate there.

As she was exiting the side doors, she heard a shout and her name. Christine turned to look and saw that a slim blonde girl was hurrying toward her. After a moment, Christine realized that it was the pretty girl she had literally run into some time ago. When the girl approached her, she smiled and waved.

"Hey, Christine! Are you on lunch now?" the girl—Meg, Christine remembered—said.

"Yeah. I just got out." She shifted her bag on her shoulders.

"Hey, me too! Do you wanna go out somewhere with me? I know this nice little place that's just a block away. I go there all the time." She was smiling, eager, and very friendly. Christine hesitated. It was…odd. She had never really had a close girl friend before. All the friendships she had made during her lifetime had never really lasted. She had moved from Sweden and had lost touch of her friends there. Four years in Paris was enough time for her to make some friends, but she moved from there as well. And by the time she had arrived in America, she was old enough to begin worrying and stressing about Gustave, and by then it was difficult to make close friends in an American high school where everyone had grown up together and already had years of friendship behind them.

But Meg was waiting for an answer, and Christine glanced behind her toward the Opera House before looking back and nodding. It would be nice…having a friend, especially since she felt incredibly friendless at the moment.

They walked, and Meg chattered in a carefree, amiable way. She had a light, graceful gait that made her stand out as a dancer.

After arriving at a small, warm little diner, Meg led the way to a booth and handed over a menu. Christine looked it over, using the silence to try to think of something to say. However, she soon realized how lucky she was that Meg was incredibly friendly and talkative.

"So how long have you been singing?" Meg asked.

"Um—all my life, but I've only been taking real lessons for about four or five months now."

"Holy cow!" Meg said, looking mightily impressed. "You sound like you've come out of the Met or something! And you've only been taking for a couple months? You're way talented."

"Thanks," Christine said, smiling and blushing a little.

"I wish I had natural talent like that," Meg said, though there wasn't a hint of bitterness in her voice. "My mom's got talent like yours, but I have to work really hard to keep up. It's crazy, you know, because my mom's a dancer and so was my dad, so you'd think that I'd inherit something to help me, but of course not." She laughed.

"I'm sure you're wonderful," Christine said. "I wish I could dance, but I'm about as flexible as a piece of wood."

Meg laughed a little. "No, I'll bet you'd be great with four or five months of instruction."

They continued to talk, and Christine found herself warming to the little blonde dancer. She seemed completely genuine and very kind. It was nice to talk to someone that wasn't Erik, who was constantly irritated and brooding.

Christine was a little surprised at the amount of food Meg ordered, though she hadn't said anything, of course. Still…it was kind of funny to watch such a small girl eat so much. Christine supposed that it was only natural, as Meg was moving for the majority of her day.

To her amazement, Meg somehow found her very interesting and asked her a lot of questions—about her past, her life in Sweden and France, her father (it was still a little hard to talk about), and other things. The really sticky question came when Meg asked gleefully,

"So do you have a boyfriend? I'll bet you do. You're pretty and nice and talented. _Someone _has to have you!"

"Heh. Thanks," Christine said, pushing some hair behind her ears. "Actually, um…Well, I just broke up with him a week or so ago. It was really…difficult. He was perfect." She laughed weakly.

"Then why'd you break it off?" Meg asked. She added quickly, "If it's okay to ask."

"No, it's fine," Christine assured her. She thought for a moment. Was it okay to tell Meg? Christine scratched the back of her hand absentmindedly, wondering. Maybe Meg would be able to tell her if she was crazy or not. Erik had been pushing her to break up with Raoul for…months, but he was _Erik_. He was not a normal person. As far as she could tell, Meg was nice and down-to-earth. If she told Meg the truth, perhaps she'd be able to give her an honest, solid, real opinion.

Christine sighed a little and rubbed her face. "His name is Raoul. He's French, and he's smart and nice and rich and—and _gorgeous_. He's the most handsome man, really. He really cared about me, too. He wanted to marry me."

Meg's eyebrows rose. "And you didn't want to marry a loaded, hot Frenchman because…?"

Christine groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's weird. It'll sound crazy. I just—couldn't. Raoul was great, but he didn't really support my singing. He thought it was a waste of time. I mean, he never actually said that to me, but I know he thought that. He kept pushing me to go to school, which meant that I'd have to give up singing. And I couldn't. I can't just give it up. I need to sing. Does…that even make any sense? Or am I just crazy?"

Meg was sucking on her straw, watching her carefully.

"You know, actually it's not crazy," she then said, putting down her lemon water. "This will probably sound a little corny and stuff, but…being part of this business is hard. It's really grueling, and it takes a lot of time and tons of sacrifices. I can't remember the last time I've gone out for a night with friends because I'm just so tired when I get home. If you want to make it, you have to be dedicated, and you have to really give yourself to it."

Meg fished the slice of lemon out of her glass. "The last thing you need is someone who doesn't support you one hundred percent. If you're going to be with someone, they have to understand what you're going through. He sounds like an amazing man, but if you really want to sing, then you need someone who'll have your back no matter what." Meg then laughed a little. "At least, that's what my mom always tells me. Honestly, the only reason I'm alive today is because my mom found someone who understood. My dad was a dancer too, and so they both supported each other. If Mom hadn't found him, there's no way she would've gotten married. She would've chosen ballet over anyone else in a heartbeat."

Christine listened to it all carefully, feeling relief and sadness creeping through her chest. She now knew that she had done the right thing, but it was still a sinking feeling to fully understand that she couldn't be with Raoul.

He needed someone else, and, hopefully, so did she.

When rehearsals ended that afternoon, Christine returned to the practice room for more lessons with Erik. They had started spending a majority of their time on her role as Barbarina, and Christine was beginning to feel a flutter of nerves every time her accompaniment music was played. Her first production in an established Opera House—and she had a part!

Christine smiled in greeting as she opened the door.

"Hey, Erik," she said, walking over and setting her bag down on the chair. She approached the piano.

"Christine," he replied, his voice melodious. He had been much…_calmer _now that she had broken up with Raoul. Erik must have always understood what Meg had just told her hours ago—she needed to be with someone who supported her fully and was frustrated that she didn't see it. Now that she had ended her relationship—her _distraction_—she could put all her focus on music and performing.

"Did you have a productive rehearsal?" he asked, sitting on the piano bench and opening the lid to reveal the black and white ivory keys. They gleamed in the dim light.

"Yeah," she said, watching him. He still had never removed his mask in front of her. She wondered if it would be okay to talk to him again about it. The mask was probably extremely uncomfortable and hot.

"After you warm up, we will spend the majority of the lesson working your recitative. You are still having quite a bit of trouble keeping the correct tempo." Erik played a scale for her to follow, and she smiled a little again, ready to learn. However, just as she began to sing, she stopped, remembering.

Erik paused and looked up at her in irritation. The smile on her lips grew wider, and she said,

"I was told to give something to you."

There was a split-second of surprise in his gaze that was quickly overshadowed by suspicion, and his visible lower lip curled in displeasure.

Christine pulled out Carlotta Guidicelli's card and handed it over to him, beginning to giggle a little.

"She asked me about my teacher and wanted to meet you. I said that you were a private guy, and she told me to give this to you so you could give her a call." Christine laughed. "Hey—you do think she could do with a few lessons, don't you?"

Erik's eyes narrowed, and he held the card between his long fingers with distaste. There was suddenly a short popping sound, and the card burst into flames in his fingers. Christine squeaked and gasped, putting a hand over her heart and backing away from the fire. Erik carelessly flicked the card onto the floor, where it smoldered and smoked gently.

"You will stay away from Carlotta Guidicelli," he said. "She is a jealous viper."

Christine stared at the card. "Holy…" she whispered. "Wow. How'd you do that?"

"How did I do what?" he said.

"_That!_" she said, pointing to the piece of ash on the ground. "It just—like, blew up in your hand! That was amazing!"

Erik shrugged, his thin, bony shoulders going up and down almost elegantly. "Parlor tricks," he said, completely nonchalant about the fact that he had just made something catch on fire in his hand. "Now come back here and begin your scales."

Christine obeyed, and she grinned at him as he began playing. Now that she was spending so much time with him, she was beginning to realize that Erik was the most interesting man she had ever met. How many more talents did he have stowed away?

And—more importantly—what was hidden behind his mask?


	28. Chapter 28

By the time opening night arrived, Christine felt like a preened, perfected instrument. Her hours of hard work had paid off, and she could tell that Erik was pleased with what she had accomplished. She had no big solos, no show-stopping arias or beautiful vocal pieces, but she loved what she did have. Christine never allowed herself to think that she was better than she really was, that she somehow _deserved _this role. She was lucky, and she always reminded herself of that. There were other girls in the ensemble who deserved the small role more than she did, and Christine wouldn't let herself take it for granted. She would love and cherish every role she was given, no matter the size. This had been her unspoken dream for her entire life, and she was here at last.

She had asked Erik to warm her up before anything started, and he had agreed. Carefully, she crept through the back hallways and into the practice room, feeling her heart flutter a little at the thought that she would be performing tonight.

Erik was waiting for her, and she smiled nervously as she entered. As they were preparing for warm-ups, Christine looked at him and said hesitantly,

"Hey, Erik?"

He glanced at her, his usual sign to show that he was listening.

"I know that this might sound stupid, but…I was wondering. Will you warm up with me?"

"Why would I do that?" he said, stretching out his long, thin fingers. She had never seen him without his gloves on.

"I—um." She laughed anxiously. "I just want to hear you sing a little, honestly. It'll make me feel better. More relaxed, I think."

He paused, and then he said, "Very well. After you warm up, I shall sing for you."

The prospect of hearing his voice again energized her, and she worked hard and was focused during her warm-ups. When she finished, Erik shifted a little on the piano bench, and Christine sat down on the stage near him, knowing that she would have fallen over anyway.

She was right; listening to him made her feel better in every single way. She had thought about her father for most of the day, but Erik's voice softly cushioned the grief. His voice also lessened the pain that she felt because Raoul wouldn't be seeing her perform. All of her sadness and sorrows seemed to be softened by his unworldly voice.

After he was finished, Christine sat there for another moment, her eyes closed, simply drinking in the overtones and the music that still hung in the air. She sighed contentedly.

"Thanks," she said, smiling and getting to her feet. "That was…amazing. Like always." As she stood there, she suddenly felt awkward again, and she blushed and stumbled over her words as she said, "Um—yeah. Hey. So, I guess all the performers get a free ticket to…give away. You know. And I was just thinking…Well." She pulled it out of her pocket and held it out to him, resolutely staring at his collar.

She had had no one else to give it to, but she was a little shocked when she realized that she wanted to give it to Erik anyway. She wanted him there, watching her. The last time she had sung had been for him, and she had done wonderfully. If he was there this time…

Erik took it from her, and she felt the tips of his fingers brush hers lightly. She resisted shivering—or, even worse, pushing her hand closer to his.

"Will you come?" she then asked nervously.

"Of course I shall be in attendance," Erik said, tucking the ticket away into his baggy suit. "I would not miss my ingénue's debut performance."

Christine felt a smile break out in relief, and she laughed breathily. "Okay. Good. Cool. Great. Um…yeah." She tucked some of her hair behind her ear and took a few backward steps. "I guess I'll go get into costume and everything. Thanks for…the warm-up. And stuff. See you later."

She darted from the room and headed for the dressing room, feeling oddly light. It was opening night, and Erik was going to be there, and she was going to do really well. She could feel it in her bones. Things were going to go perfectly.

When she entered the dressing room, she was met with a flurry of activity as all the girls rushed about, complaining about last-minute costume changes or looking for small accessories and other such things. Christine pushed through them all and went to her spot, shocked to see that there was a bouquet of red flowers by her costume. Christine picked it up; there was no note left, and she looked around.

"Do you know who put these here?" she asked one of the girls next to her.

The girl shook her head, busy trying to get her costume unzipped. "Maybe the Ghost," the girl said offhandedly, giving her costume another yank. A few girls laughed at the comment.

Christine was nonplussed. "The Ghost?" she repeated.

Another girl turned to look at her. "Yeah, the Ghost. Oh—wait, that's right. You're new." The girl grinned suddenly. "Okay, so the Opera House is completely haunted! It has this creepy Ghost that is always messing stuff up. One time a hundred years ago a singer was killed onstage during the middle of a performance. And now his Ghost haunts the building. He does weird stuff, like messing up scenery or changing music. And if you walk through the building after hours, you might see him, and then he'll kill you! Because one time one of our stage managers did that. He was here late at night, and then they found him dead the next morning."

Christine shivered.

One of the older women turned and rolled her eyes. "Don't listen to them, sweetie," the woman said. "They're just stupid stories. There's no Ghost. The Opera House isn't even a hundred years old. And that stage manager died of a heart attack."

"A heart attack because he had _seen _the Ghost!" the girl whispered, giggling a little.

"That's not something to laugh about," the woman snapped, and she turned back to her costume.

Christine looked at the flowers and then shook her head. No. The last thing she needed was to get worked up with some dumb Ghost story that wasn't even true. She set the flowers aside, making a note to ask Erik if he had gotten them for her. The thought made her smile just a little.

When she opened the small, long cupboard where her costume hung, she paused.

It wasn't there.

Panic immediately rushed over her, and she took a deep breath and looked back to the girl.

"Hey. Do you know if someone grabbed my costume?" she asked.

The girl shrugged, pulling on her shoes. "The seamstresses, probably. They're always making last-minute adjustments."

She nodded. "Thanks." Trying not to run, she left the dressing room and made her way through the crowded backstage. Different groups were warming up their voices, and she could hear Carlotta's loud voice ringing from her private dressing room. The dancers were stretching, and several more performers were looking over librettos.

After sidling around a group of male dancers, she entered into the room where the seamstresses were, and her heart nearly stopped.

Her costume was being worn by a different girl. There were three seamstresses around her, pinning things up and making small adjustments to make it fit.

"That's my costume," Christine stated blankly.

"Hmm?" the girl said, looking up from a ribbon she was holding in place for the seamstress to pin. "Oh. I'm sorry. Mr. Gabriel is looking for you. He has to…talk to you." There was that tone in her voice, the one that wanted to pass on the bad news to someone else. Christine felt her mouth go dry, and she left the room, not wanting to see her costume on someone else.

For a few minutes, she wandered along backstage, looking for Mr. Gabriel and trying to calm herself down. It was probably just a misunderstanding, a miscommunication…something…

"Miss Daae!"

She heard her name being called, and she turned to see Mr. Gabriel pushing past a group of ballerinas. He looked haggard and stressed, though he tried visibly to soften his features into sorrowful compassion when he approached her.

"Someone else has my costume on," she said.

"Yes. I know." There was a pause, and a group of giggly chorus girls rushed past, getting in place for the opening scene.

"Am I going to wear a different one?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, Miss Daae, but…" He rubbed his left eye, his lips tight in a frown. "It looks like there's been a last-minute change. You're not going to be playing Barbarina."

For a moment, it felt like time stopped. Christine stared at him and then looked around at all the excited, happy performers scurrying around, preparing themselves for the show. The stage manager was pointing at someone, and the stage crew was putting last-minute touches on the set. This was what she had wanted, to be surrounded by this, but…

"Why not?" she said, trying to keep her voice under control. "I was…You _told _me I was."

"I know," Mr. Gabriel said, sounding very sorry. "It wasn't my decision. It was…Well. The managers apparently got involved in it all, and this was made without my approval. And I'm really sorry. I know how hard you worked for this. But if it's the managers' direct decision, then…well, we can't really override it. I'm sorry."

She looked at him silently, unbelieving that this was happening.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "In a couple weeks, after you learn all the blocking for the chorus, you're going to join them. And you can try again next production. You're brand new. You'll have tons of chances. It'll be fine, okay?"

She nodded. "Okay," she said hurriedly. It sounded like a gasp. She was trying to control her emotions.

"You're free to go home," Mr. Gabriel said. "Or…if you want to watch the—no, I guess you can't. Sorry. It's a full house tonight."

"I'll go home," she whispered. He nodded, gave her one last apologetic look, and then rushed off. The orchestra had started tuning. She continued to stand there, in the middle of the backstage rush, and people were still hurrying by her, loud whispers of excitement and opening-night nerves filling the stale backstage air. The set crew rushed offstage to their respective positions, and Christine could faintly see Carlotta walking to her spot in the wing and smoothing out her wig and costume. The man playing Figaro rushed out and took his spot center stage. The overture started.

For a moment, she felt completely lost. She clutched her right arm with her left hand and looked around, as if someone would come up and tell her where to go. However, the only person who approached her was her new friend, Meg.

"Hi!" Meg whispered. She looked her up and down. "Why don't you have your costume on? The opera's started!"

"I know," Christine said. "I'm…um. Yeah. My role was switched. I'm in the chorus now, but I don't know the blocking, so I have to learn it before I can go on."

Meg's face scrunched up. "What? That's awful! That—why would they do that to you? Did you talk to…um, what's-his-name…the guy over the chorus?"

"Mr. Gabriel? Yeah. He was the one who told me. I guess the managers decided it, so…yep. That's all there is to it." She tried to shrug it off with a laugh.

Another ballerina quickly ran up to them. "Meg, Jaime's shoe strap broke, and she needs to borrow another pair. Do you have extra?"

"Yeah, in a sec," Meg snapped. She looked back to Christine. "Christine, I'm so sorry. That's awful. Talk to the managers tomorrow and see if they'll sort it all out, okay? I gotta go. Sorry." She leaned over and hugged her tightly before turning and running off.

The overture then ended, and the curtain rose. Christine turned and hurried away, unable to bear being there anymore. She just wanted to run home and curl up in her bed and sob.

As she was making her way back to the now-empty dressing room to grab her things, a long hand suddenly grabbed her arm, and she felt Erik taking her away quickly. He pulled her into Carlotta's private dressing room and locked the door securely behind them.

"What is happening?" he hissed. "You are not in costume! What are you doing?"

She watched him. "Erik, they gave my part away."

His frame seized up, and his eyes flashed. She nearly recoiled.

"What?" he said, his voice low and rasping and horrible. "Who told you? Who did this? Who has your part now? I will rip out their throats for ordering such things!"

She had begun to cry at last. "Mr. Gabriel told me that the managers got—got involved and made the decision. I don't…know the name of the girl who's p-playing Barbarina now. Mr. Gabriel said th-that I was going to be put in the chorus once I know the b-blocking."

In an instant, Erik had seized the closest object—a glass vase full of wilting roses—and hurled it at the wall. The glass was the thick, cheap kind, and so the vase didn't break, but there was a loud _thud, _and the roses and water spilled down the wall and onto the floor. Christine jumped at the sound and stared at him, tears spilling out of her eyes.

"You will stay here," he breathed. "Do you understand me? You will remain right there until I fetch you."

She nodded instantly, and with the click of the door, he had disappeared. Her mind was swirling, and she slumped onto the nearby sofa, still feeling sick and exhausted. She gave a shuddering, gasping breath and buried her face into her hands, rubbing at her sore eyes, feeling her makeup smear.

The minutes ticked away, and she put her head on the armrest and bawled. It hurt. Badly. She had wanted that part. She had wanted to play it more than anything, and she had felt prepared to play it. She had wanted Erik to see her on the stage as a strong, confident performer. And although she didn't even know the girl who replaced her, Christine viciously told herself that there was no way that the new girl would play it as well as she could. Christine had lived and breathed that role for weeks. It was all she and Erik had done, and now she wasn't going to be playing it at all.

With several heaving, pathetic-sounding gasps, she managed to reign in her sobs a little, and she wiped at her streaming eyes, looking around. The dressing room was a good size and was very pretty. A huge vanity dominated one wall, and a large mirror stood proudly on the other side. It stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and its frame was gilded and shiny. Erik had promised her all…this. But what if no one made it possible for her? What if this happened every time?

Why would anyone do that to her? Had she unknowingly offended someone so much that they wanted her out of the production and had resorted talking to the managers?

As she was sitting and trying to compose herself, she could still hear the music from the opera. Carlotta's voice drifted to her as well, and Christine sighed tiredly. Soon she would have to get up and leave, because Carlotta had a costume change coming up soon, and she didn't want to explain why or how she had gotten into the room.

Suddenly, an extremely loud, sharp _bang _echoed through and to the dressing room. Christine jumped and squeaked a little, and she could hear several people scream. There was a seemingly-universal stillness, and then the music started back up again.

Christine put a hand over her heart and massaged it a little before leaning her head back onto the armrest. A set piece had probably tipped backstage.

She wiped at her eyes and nose again, wondering what Erik was doing. The thought of him somehow comforted her a little. He would make sure that she was taken care of. He knew it wasn't her fault—he knew she had been ready. He probably already had some mysterious plan, and he'd make it happen, and everything would be fine.

As she was vaguely wondering if she would fall asleep right there on the dressing room sofa, more screams erupted from the distant audience. Christine sat straight up, staring at the door. The screams didn't stop this time, however—they only grew louder and more frantic. Terrified already, she immediately hunched down into the corner of the couch, not wanting to leave the apparent safety of the dressing room but wanting to know what was happening.

Footsteps began to rush past the door, and she felt her chest begin to heave. Sweat began to form again along her forehead. She wondered if she was going to be sick.

The door suddenly clicked, and she looked up, giving a small, strangled cry of relief when she saw Erik.

"Erik—" she started, but he merely reached out and grabbed her arm, very roughly. His hand was bony hand dug into her flesh. She yelped a little in pain as he yanked her up, and she stumbled forward as he pulled her out of the room.

A smell instantly met her nose, and she covered it quickly with her free hand. _Smoke!_

As if in an answer to her question, a loud, shrieking, piercing alarm began to ring all throughout the building, and there was another chorus of fresh shrieks. Erik ignored it and continued to pull her along backstage. There was complete chaos, people running every which way. Erik led her over to a corner that held a huge mass of ropes for the flies, and Christine looked around, noting that anybody who was still backstage wasn't paying the least bit of attention to them—they were all rushing offstage and into the back hallways. Some of the girls were sobbing hysterically.

When Christine looked back, she saw that Erik had opened a door she had never noticed before. It was small and looked like it opened up to…nothingness. He pulled, and she resisted a little.

When he looked back at her, she said, "Erik, I'm…"

With a loud snarl, he leaned over and then swept her up into his arms. She shrieked a little in alarm, clutching his neck tightly. It was a long way to the ground.

He hurried through the doorway and kicked it shut with his foot. The scary sounds and the panicked atmosphere were instantly and severely muffled. He shifted her a little in his arms, and she felt his bony ribcage dig into her side. Then he set off, his shoes tapping lightly as he walked.

She sensed that he was thinking hard. His eyes were glowing and distracted, and his mouth was tight and clenched. Christine continued to hold onto his neck, and she could feel the top of his spine through his shirt collar. Every spot her body was pressing into was thin and bony and hard.

They were walking along small and dark hallways. The sounds were muffled, and Christine looked around, noting the dim light. There didn't even seem to be a light source anywhere, and it felt like any of the light that was in the hallways was unwelcome. She had never been in this part of the Opera House before.

The noises were getting quieter, and after several long minutes, they stopped completely. Still, Erik continued to walk, briskly and with a constant rhythm. She hoped that she wasn't getting heavy in his arms. She was more than capable of walking to…

_Where_ was she going? What was he doing with her?

"Where are—?" she at last tried to ask.

"You will not speak now," he interrupted shortly. He continued along, and she thought that he was going to take her out of the Opera House using a back doorway. However, he never paused, walking down endless dark passageways and through doors. There was even one _trapdoor _that they had to cross, and it was somewhat awkward to get through. Erik put her down, pulled open the heavy wooden door, jumped through, and reached up through the trapdoor with his long hands. He seized her waist and dragged her down. She screamed in surprise as she fell, but his hands were still on her waist, and he ensured that she didn't hit the ground.

The air was stale and musty, and it felt dank and damp.

"Was there a fire, Erik?" she asked at length, unable to stand the deafening silence. "I could smell smoke!" It felt as if they had completely left the Opera House, yet they hadn't emerged outside at all.

He stopped short, and then he looked down at her, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. "Perhaps you should rest," he said. "You are obviously distressed."

She frowned and squirmed in his tight grasp. "I'm fine," she insisted faintly. "I just want to know what happened."

"You will rest here." He carefully pushed her down, and she leaned against a cold, dirty wall, shivering a little and staring. Crouching down in front of her, he met her gaze steadily.

"I'm scared," she admitted in a whisper. "What happened?"

"You are safe," he said, his voice a gentle, soothing hum. "You simply need rest."

"Maybe I should go home…" she muttered. "I can sleep there."

"Rest now," he said. His _voice _was coaxing her to obey. It was entreating and cooing at her, and she closed her eyes tiredly, leaning back. Maybe she _could _just close her eyes for a couple minutes—just a little rest until she felt less queasy.

An entrancing sound met her ears, and she realized that Erik was singing softly again. It made her body heavy, and she let her head droop. She was so tired…so tired…and Erik's voice was telling her that it was okay to be tired and to rest. Tomorrow would be the time to figure everything out. But for now, she just wanted to rest.

With a floppy, heavy arm, she reached up and brushed at her cheek, as it felt as if something had been touching it. Oddly enough, the thought of spiders and bugs and rats and other creepy-crawly things didn't bother her too much right now…Erik's voice was wrapping a protective cocoon around her, and she would be safe forever in it. With a long yawn, she tried to say something, but it came out as a garbled moan. Then she resigned herself, yawned again, and fell asleep.


	29. Chapter 29

Christine's head was pounding when she woke. She groaned a little at the pain that was made manifest in her neck and shoulders, and she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to rub out the sleep and heaviness that was keeping them down. With a dull sleepiness, she began to remember what had happened the previous night—falling asleep in some creepy hallway with Erik staring at her…

After a few minutes of yawning and rubbing away the sleep, she managed to open her eyes a little and was surprised to see herself in what appeared to be a living room. It was…the most bizarre living room she had ever seen, admittedly, but it was a living room nonetheless.

She was lying on a black leather sofa, and she looked to see that her clothes were filthy. There was no carpet, and the hardwood floor was covered by a few richly-colored rugs. A bookshelf had been built into the wall, and it was bursting with books of all sizes. A few were even stacked up on the floor next to it, as it appeared that there was no room left to fit them. There was a little alcove-type room off near it, and she could see a large, shining black grand piano sitting proudly in the center. Around it were stacks of papers—littered around the floor, sitting on the bench, crammed up on the stand…The papers were everywhere, and when she squinted she could see that they were all covered in handwritten music. A few bizarre and almost grotesque paintings were hanging on the wall, and she quickly averted her eyes. She already didn't like looking at them. They made her feel uncomfortable.

With another little groan, she pushed herself to a sitting position, looking around to see if she could get some clues as to where she was. Of course this was probably Erik's house. The thought thrilled her and chilled her. But _where _was Erik's house…? There was absolutely no noise whatsoever. It was a little scary. The silence was almost oppressive. There weren't any familiar homey sounds—no water dripping from a faucet, no rumbling of a laundry machine, no creaking of a house settling, no hum of a heater or air conditioner, no ticking of a clock. There was absolute stillness, and she held her breath for a moment, feeling like her breathing was too loud.

A few doors led off, and she stumbled to her feet and trudged over to them, only to find that they were locked. She twisted and pulled on the handles for a little while, and then she remembered that this was undoubtedly _Erik's _house and that if he didn't want her prying, there was no way she could pry. There were two heavily-curtained windows, and she pulled back the curtains only to see that the shutters were closed on them, and as it was dark outside, no light was shining in.

As she was examining her pale face in the window glass, she heard a lock clicking, and she turned, trying to ready herself for Erik and the things she would feel when she saw him. When the door opened, she opened her mouth, but no words came out, because it was not Erik.

She stared at the person—man, and he stared back at her, wild surprise evident in his dark eyes. As Christine looked, she vaguely recognized him. She had seen him around the Opera House once or twice, but she had never taken any particular notice to him. Just as she was about to ask who he was, she saw that he seemed to snap out of his shock, and his hand dug into his jacket. To her horror, he pulled out a smooth, shining handgun, and he pointed it at her with both hands, aiming it right at her head. His aim looked steady and sure, and she screamed and fell to the ground, crawling behind the sofa in hopes that it would protect her.

"Who are you?" the man demanded loudly. He approached and circled around the sofa to get a clear shot at her. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"Please!" Christine begged, covering her head with her arms. "Please, I'm sorry! Please don't shoot me!"

"Tell me who you are!" the man yelled. "What are you doing here? How did you get here?"

"I don't know!" Christine cried, her forehead pressed into the hardwood floor. "Please, I swear! Erik grabbed me, and then I passed out, and I don't—"

"Shut up!" the man suddenly hollered. Christine obeyed instantly, sobbing into the floor. Erik had brought her here…and then he had sent this man to kill her…The thought was agony, torture. She had thought that…he might have begun…to care about her a little. Maybe he was so mad at her for losing her role that he had sent someone to get rid of her.

She heard the man approach her, and his footsteps stopped next to her head. She kept her arms over her head, trying to protect herself from a bullet as best she could.

"I recognize you," the man then said blankly. "You sing at the Opera House, right?"

"Yes," Christine whimpered. "Yes, please…I'm only a singer. Please. I don't know anything."

There was a long pause, and then the man suddenly shouted, "_Erik! _You've really outdone yourself this time!" The man's footsteps receded, and Christine chanced a quick peek upward. The gun had disappeared (she thanked the heavens for that), and the man was standing a few feet away, looking at her with anger and bewilderment. He appeared to be an older man. There were wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and some gray in his hair and beard. He was dressed casually, and she noted that he looked Middle Eastern, though he was dressed in American attire and his beard was trimmed neatly. His eyes were dark and intelligent, and his nose had a heavy, prominent hook.

"How long have you been here?" the man suddenly asked.

Christine flinched, and then she managed to whisper, "I—I don't know. I don't know. I passed out. I don't know how long I've been sleeping. I just woke up five minutes ago."

"Where is Erik?"

"I don't know."

The man sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he said, almost tiredly, "Get up off the floor now. I won't hurt you. I'm very sorry for scaring you like that. I thought…" He trailed off.

Trembling and shaking, she pushed herself up to her knees, but she didn't dare to go any further.

"What's your name?" the man said, looking over at one of the doorways.

"Christine Daae," she answered immediately.

"And how…how do you know Erik?"

She didn't trust this man—who was he, and why was he in Erik's home? How did _he _know Erik? Still, he had possession of a gun, and she did not, so she answered him honestly.

"He teaches me to sing."

The man whirled around to look at her with apparently surprise. "He teaches—he teaches you to sing?"

Christine nodded. There was a long moment of silence, and he continued to look at her in confusion.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," the man then said, his voice forcefully-calm. "Erik—_Erik _teaches you to sing? Are we speaking of the same Erik?"

She was beginning to become confused as well. "Erik…He wears a mask," she said. "He's tall. And he's a very talented musician. He teaches me to sing."

The man muttered something in what apparently was his native language, and then he sank down onto the black sofa, pressing his palms over his eyes. He looked very upset.

"Erik—Erik—Erik," he said over and over again.

Christine watched him with some concern. "Are you okay?" she asked softly. "Are you sick?"

He lowered his hands and looked at her. "I'm fine," he said weakly. "Are—are _you _all right? Christine, you said? Are you all right? Has Erik…Tell me honestly. Has he done anything to you?"

Christine sat back on her bottom and pulled her knees up to her chest, putting her chin on them and watching the man carefully, in case he pulled the gun out again. "He's a little scary," she admitted. "But he's a good teacher. He was the one who helped me get to the Opera House. I wouldn't be here without him."

A humorless smile flitted across the man's lips. "No, you would not be here without him."

"I don't understand," she said. "Are you looking for Erik? Where is he? Isn't this his house?"

"Yes, this is his house," the man said, glancing around the room. "I'm looking for him. I heard about the fire a few hours ago, and I have to know if he was connected to it."

Christine felt herself go pale, and she fought back a rising sickness. "Did he…?" she whispered hoarsely. "_He_ caused it? I didn't…I didn't know that. I was offstage, but I could smell smoke…" She felt tears creep up, and she put her face in her knees. "How could he do that? People were so scared! _I _was scared…"

"You say he took you down here?" he said.

She looked up at him and nodded. "He took me through a hidden door…and I tried to ask about the fire, but I was so…I don't know. I was so upset about what happened—I had just lost my part…and then the fire…He sang me a song, and I fell asleep right away."

"Do you _want_ to be here, Christine? If you don't, I will take you back up right now."

Before she had time to answer—before she had time to ask what 'back up' meant—the door opened, and Erik entered, a huge paper bag in his arms. He stopped short at the sight of the man, and she could tell that his upper lip was curling. His eyes narrowed.

"Nadir," he said shortly, coldly. "What a thoroughly-unpleasant surprise."

The man stood from the couch and pointed at Christine. "What _is _this, Erik?" he said. "What is this new game you're playing?"

Erik glanced toward her, and she wanted to crawl away and hide somewhere.

"It is nothing that concerns you," Erik then said, and he continued on into the room, setting the sack down on the sofa. He looked toward Christine again. "Come look what I've brought for you," he said softly, as if she was a frightened animal and he didn't want to scare her away. "Come here, Christine."

She glanced between the two men before shuffling over to the sofa, rising up to her knees again and looking at the bag. Erik reached in and pulled out a package of bright-red strawberries.

"You like these, don't you?" he said, and he held them out for her. "Go ahead. Take them."

Christine looked over at the dark-skinned man. He was watching the scene with wide eyes, and she remembered the gun in his jacket. Maybe if she took the strawberries…What if he grew angry and pulled out the gun again?

Erik followed her gaze, and then he said to her, "Don't think about Nadir, Christine. He is nobody. Take these. You like them. I know you do."

When she still hesitated, Erik put them down. She watched as he approached the dark-skinned man. Erik was several inches taller, but the man was broader. Before she could see what had happened, the man's gun was in Erik's hands, and Erik quickly and silently shifted a few things on it and pulled it apart, dropping the two pieces on the ground; he did it all so smoothly and easily that he must have done it dozens of times before. Then Erik returned and held out the package of strawberries once again. This time she took them, and she opened it and began to eat some, sitting back down on the floor. They tasted wonderful, especially as she was feeling a little hollow and shaky from the heavy sleeping and the fright she had received from the gun being pulled on her.

"Erik," the man then said, making no move to pick up his dismantled gun. "Please. I don't know what you're doing with her, but you know that it won't end well. I don't know what your motivations are—and I won't care, just as long as you let me bring her back up right now."

"I would say that she is more frightened of you right now, Nadir," Erik said, almost conversationally, pulling more things out of the large paper sack. "You pointed a gun at her. She would much rather stay here with me than go with you." He looked at her. "Wouldn't you, Christine? Look what else I've brought for you."

She continued eating the strawberries, looking at the assortment of things he had laid out of her. There was more fruit—apples and oranges and bananas. There was also some juice, expensive-looking lotion, perfume, a pretty hairbrush, a necklace, soap, and other odds and ends.

"I'm not the one who set a building on fire!" the man snapped.

Christine shuddered a little, wiping some strawberry juice off her chin, and she looked up at Erik, who was trying to hold out more things for her to take.

"Erik?" she whispered. "Did you…really set the Opera House on fire? Was that you?"

"Now why would I do that?" he said. "Besides, some of the wiring was faulty. It is not my fault that the management is too idiotic to fix their problems."

The man exclaimed in frustration and threw his hands in the air. Then he said, "Make excuses all you want, Erik! We all know that you did it. And this—_this! _Kidnapping a young girl…I never thought that you would stoop _this_ low."

"It is time for you to leave, Nadir," Erik said, not even sparing him a glance. He took the package of strawberries away from Christine and pushed an apple into her hands. Christine was confused. Erik hadn't really _kidnapped _her. She had wanted to go with him, even though she really hadn't known where he was taking her. But she hadn't really struggled. She had hesitated, but she hadn't tried to get away.

"I'm not leaving without the girl," the man—Nadir, Christine understood—said. "I'm taking her back up with me, and you are not going to do this to her again. She's clearly terrified."

She was scared, but right then she was only afraid of what Erik was going to do to the man. He was pushing him, and Erik could only be bent so far before he snapped.

"Goodbye, Nadir," Erik said firmly, tersely. "You are not welcome here anymore."

"That's perfectly fine with me," Nadir said, his voice somehow incredibly calm. "But I'm not leaving without her."

Erik stood suddenly, so fast that he startled her and she jumped a little. He walked over to Nadir, picked up the gun, put it back together in a matter of seconds, and pointed it at Nadir's head. His hand wasn't shaking. Christine let out a pitiful-sounding squeak of alarm and covered her mouth with her hands, the apple rolling off of her lap and onto the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see the murder. There was a very long moment of silence, broken only by Christine's occasional shuddering whimpers. Then she heard Nadir speak in a defeated tone.

"All right. I'll go. But this—this _thing _with her…I'm not done yet."

"You are," Erik replied, his tone hard and cold. "Get out."

She heard the door open, and Nadir said quietly, "Just remember how young she is, Erik."

The door slammed shut (presumably by Erik), and she had the courage to open her eyes a little. Nadir was gone, and she was alone with Erik. He put the gun down on a side table, picked up her apple, and held it out to her. She took it gingerly with a whispered 'thank you.' Then there was further silence.

"Did he upset you?" Erik asked, standing in front of her. He was much too tall, and she was forced to crane her head upward so she wasn't staring at his calves.

"I'm fine," she said quietly, pressing her palms against the smooth red apple. "He just startled me a little."

"He will not bother you anymore," Erik said, his voice coming out rather like a growl. "I shall make sure of that."

"Oh, no, he's fine," Christine said. "I just didn't expect to see anyone here except you—and then he had that gun…" She glanced toward it furtively. It was resting on the table still, looking menacing.

Erik saw her looking at it, and he walked over and picked it up. Somehow, it disappeared in his hands. He then returned to her side. He did a strange jerking motion with his left arm and then clenched his hand at his side. Christine understood that he had meant to offer her his hand but had quickly changed his mind. Clumsily, she stood and looked around, taking a cautious bite of her apple.

"Is this your house?" she then said, by way of breaking the silence.

Erik nodded, staring at her.

"It's nice," she said awkwardly. "Um…from what I've seen, anyway."

There was a pause, and then Erik suddenly said, "Yes. I would…very much prefer if you stayed here for a short while. I should like to ensure that your voice has sufficient care and practice during this time. As the Opera House is…ah, currently under repairs, it will be an excellent time to continue working on your divine instrument."

"You want me to stay with you?" Christine asked blankly.

"It would be preferable," he replied after a moment of silence, somewhat stiffly.

Christine ate some more of her apple to cover up her silence. She was thinking furiously. Could she really stay here…with him? And how long was a 'short while?' And where _was _his house?

But she knew that he would grow upset if she refused. Christine then remembered the awkward, friendly moments they had shared, and she felt a little flutter in her stomach. Being here with him might give her more opportunities to have such experiences with him. Erik was…interesting. She did want to spend time with him—maybe not all of this time all at once, but perhaps now was better than never. At last, she looked at him and nodded, chewing on a bite.

There was relief evident in his eyes. "Wonderful," he said softly. A long pause followed, and out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand rise slightly, but then he swiftly brought it down to his side again. Clearing his throat, he said briskly, "What do you desire, Christine? I will make it so. Anything you wish."

"Um. I'd like to get out of these clothes, if that's okay." she said honestly and somewhat nervously. "They're really dirty."

"Yes. Of course you wish that." To her surprise, he hesitated a little as he said, "I am afraid that there is only one room in my house. It is my room. However, it is at your disposal for the entire duration of your stay. It is _your _room while you are here. Yes?"

"Wow," she said, uncomfortable at the thought. "That's really nice of you, Erik—but I can just as well sleep on the couch or something. I don't want to kick you out of your room."

"You are a very good girl," he said warmly, and she blinked in surprise at his tone. "But I will insist this time. Erik would be a terrible host indeed if he allowed his honored guest to sleep in the front room. I do not sleep much, anyway…Follow me and I shall show you."

He led the way over to one of the locked doors. Under his touch, however, it opened. She was astonished. She hadn't seen him _touch _the doorknob, much less unlock it.

His room was dark, and she peered in with trepidation. Then he flipped on some lights, and she resisted stumbling backward. It was obviously Erik's room. There was minimal décor. A strange, shadowy painting hung on the wall. She looked at it for a moment before shivering and looking away. A black, shining sculpture rested on the bedside table. It was twisting and intricate, and she couldn't tell if it was a human or an animal. However, the expression on its face was one of fear and horror. She didn't like it at all, and she didn't like the idea that she would be _sleeping _next to it.

Erik said, "There is an adjoining restroom over there for your use. This is your room now, Christine. You may use whatever you please."

"Thanks, Erik," she murmured, looking around further. Unlike the other rooms, this one was richly carpeted, and she looked at the bed. It was very wide, and the headboard twisted up into intricate woodworking. She swallowed a little. The sheets and bedspread were black, like some big hole that was waiting to swallow her up.

For a little while, she felt Erik watching her closely, and then she looked back to him and forced a smile onto her lips, trying not to think of the sheer strangeness of the situation and panic.

"Thanks for letting me stay here," she said, taking a few brave steps into the room. "I'll try…to be a good guest."

"You are already the perfect guest simply by being here," he said, somewhat solemnly. Then he walked around her and said, "I will bring you new clothing shortly. I had not anticipated your coming, you see…So I am ill-prepared. However, it will soon be remedied, I promise you."

"Oh—I can just go to my apartment and get a few changes of clothes," she said. "You don't have to get anything for me at all."

"No," he said, sounding somewhat strained. "I will provide everything you require."

"Okay," she replied, trying not to frown or quirk an eyebrow. "If you say so…"

Erik left for a moment and then returned with the sack full of the things he brought for her—minus the food, which she presumed he had put in his kitchen (wherever that was). She took it awkwardly with another murmured 'thank you.' His eyes still glowing, he inclined his head in response and then left, shutting the door behind him. She stood around again, looking at the room.

This was…Erik's room. This was the _Phantom's _room. This was his most private place, his inner sanctuary. She looked toward the bed and resisted shivering. He had slept in that bed—had laid his bony body down in the dark sheets and had slept.

Then she cautiously walked over to the closed door that he had indicated was the bathroom, and she opened it carefully, reaching around and flicking on the light when she found the switch. It was modest and somewhat small, with only the necessities. She set the sack down on the minimal counter space and rummaged through it, pulling out the things that would be useful in her shower. Thankfully, the door had a lock, and she clicked it in place before pulling off her clothes. She stood there naked, feeling incredibly out-of-place. There was no mirror, she noticed. The space above the sink was merely a stretch of bare wall—not even a nail hole to indicate a mirror might have gone there.

Christine fiddled with the taps for a minute or so to get to the right temperature, and then she stepped into the steaming shower, staring at the wall and wondering how it all had happened. She had been preparing to sing her debut performance…and then she hadn't…and Erik had been furious…and the fire …and the song…and the gun…and…She pressed her hands over her face, inhaling deeply and willing herself not to freak out. Everything was all right, she told herself. She was just staying with Erik for a few days. She had stayed with Raoul for a while during those difficult days after her father's disappearance. And Erik simply wanted her close by because of her travesty of a "debut performance." So…everything was all right.

Except for the fact that Raoul was not a murderer and Erik was…

The water soaked through her hair and down her frame, and she felt as if it was washing away the weight of the entire night. It felt good to soak in hot water, and the steam filled up the room. She used the soaps and shampoos he had gotten her, noting that they all smelled like lavender. She finished her shower and then spent a few uncomfortable minutes rummaging around for a towel, dripping all over his floor, pressing an arm across her chest as she looked. There was a medicine cupboard and a cupboard with a supply of soaps and creams and (oddly enough) razors. Then she discovered a very small pile of towels, pulled one out, and quickly wrapped it around her, breathing a little sigh of relief as her bare body was covered.

She was then faced with the uncomfortable prospect of either going out to try to find clothes, or waiting for him to return with clothes as he promised. Unsure of how he would respond to her in nothing but a towel, she opted to wait in the bathroom, sitting on the counter, her hair dripping down her back. She found herself wishing that there was a mirror so she could draw pictures in the steam like she used to do as a child, but then she told herself not to be so immature. Instead she sat there, her chin in her hands, looking around the small bathroom again, even though there was nothing new to see. Bored, she slid down and opened the medicine cabinet again, looking closely at the supplies.

It was rather disturbing. Instead of bottles of vitamins, painkillers, allergy pills, and other normal things, there were bandages and medical scissors and _needles_ and unmarked pills and…other things. She reached out and picked up a little glass jar. It was full of a clear liquid, and she saw that the cap of it was the type of rubber that a needle could get through. She looked again and found two more of the small jars. There was a host of strange-looking creams, and a few oddly-shaped objects that she couldn't identify.

As she was prying, there was a soft knock on the door, and she dropped the long, shiny, silvery hook-like object she was holding. Then she blushed, snatched it up, and shoved it back into the cupboard, shutting the door hurriedly and standing.

"Don't come in!" she said, clutching her towel tightly, a little panicked.

"I have fresh clothing for you," came Erik's smooth, purring voice. "I shall leave it just outside the door. You are welcome to come out whenever you wish."

She heard his footsteps fade away, and she stared at the door suspiciously for a few minutes before going over and unlocking the door and cracking it open to peer into the bedroom. It was empty. There was a small pile of clothes by the door, just as he said, and she snatched them up and quickly shut and locked the door once again.

There were dark slacks and a nice purple blouse, along with (she blushed insanely) a matching set of lacy white underwear.

"Grow up, Christine," she muttered to herself, though her face was still hot as she slipped the silky fabric on.

When she at last left the safety of his bedroom (finding no way to manage her hair, but not for lack of trying), she heard him playing the piano, and she cautiously tiptoed over, peering around the corner of the small alcove, feeling a little shy. It was stranger than she could describe to be here in his home—the man in the mask to whom she owed so much.

"Was everything to your liking?" he suddenly asked, looking up at her.

"Oh, yeah," she said hurriedly, hiding her little jump as best she could. "Everything was great. Thanks."

Christine looked around the small alcove again, noting another door she hadn't seen before. To her complete surprise, she saw a beautiful violin and bow hanging next to it. Christine immediately gasped.

"I didn't know you played!" she said, pointing.

He looked over to it. "Oh," he said, as if he had forgotten that he played. "Yes."

She wandered over to it, almost without thinking, and when she reached out to touch it, she suddenly remembered herself and looked back to him.

"Can I…?" she inquired timidly. His hand came up and made an almost elegant gesture, indicating permission. Christine gently pulled it off the hook and held it. It was a beautiful violin, though the wood was very dark—the darkest violin she had ever seen, in fact. There was hardly any varnish or gloss to it, but it gave it a sort of morbid beauty that she found intriguing. All in all, it seemed to suit Erik perfectly.

"What is it?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"I crafted it myself, many years ago," he said, standing.

"Really?" She was awed. "My dad had a really nice one—not made by anyone famous, but I guess there was this nice old guy in Sweden that made it for my granddad, and then my dad inherited it." She paused and bit her lip. "It's sad that it'll probably never be played again."

"You have no interest in learning how to play?" Erik asked. She suddenly noticed that he was standing very close to her—she hadn't even seen him approach. If she shifted just an inch or two, her shoulder would be pressed into his chest.

Christine shook her head, carefully hanging up the instrument. "I'd be awful—I know I would. I'd probably…make my dad roll in his grave. Heh." She choked out a laugh, half-amused at her joke and half-horrified that she had even made it. What was wrong with her?

"If you feel that way," Erik said simply. "We shall focus solely on your voice, then." There was a pause, and then he looked at her, his eyes very clear behind the holes in his mask. Christine stared at them. She made a silent vow that during her stay here, she would gain Erik's trust enough for him to remove his mask.

His lower lip twitched a little, and then he said, "We shall make miracles down here, Christine Daae."


	30. Chapter 30

Christine woke suddenly, inhaling a little and opening her eyes quickly. She blinked a few times in surprise, and for one millisecond, she thought that she had gone blind. Then she realized and remembered—she was in Erik's room. It was pitch-black, and she groaned a little, rubbing her eyes. She rolled over onto her stomach. The bed was wide and cool, and although the mattress was a lot harder than she would have preferred, she was still grateful that Erik had given up his bed for her.

There was complete silence and stillness once again. Christine squinted. She could see very dim and faint light sneaking in through the small cracks around the door, but other than that, there was nothing. Yesterday, she had been a little perturbed to see that there were no other windows in the house besides the two in the front room. For a moment, she wondered if she was secluded away in an apartment complex, but the complete absence of any other neighborly noises made her realize that they were quite alone—or the building had the best insulation she had ever experienced.

She wondered what time it was. There was no clock nearby. Ever since she had woken up on his sofa, she hadn't known what time it was. She didn't know if she had gone to bed at three in the afternoon or three in the morning. Still, she felt awake and somewhat refreshed, meaning that it was probably time to get up.

With a little huff, she blew some stray curls out of her face and rolled out of the bed, searching carefully for the floor. Within a minute or so, she was blinking against the light she had turned on, and she looked around, noting that there were several long, white boxes piled neatly by the door. Erik must have set them there while she was sleeping. She shivered a little, not allowing herself to think of anything more than that.

Christine knelt down and pulled the lid off the top one, looking at the pretty clothes within. Last night Erik had somehow miraculously procured a nightgown for her. She had taken it with a stuttering 'thank you,' feeling awkward. She had never worn an actual nightgown before. Her pajamas had always consisted of shorts and overlarge t-shirts.

When she was finally dressed and ready to face the day, she went back over to the bed and grabbed the statue she had stuffed under the bed the previous night. Although she hadn't even been able to see it, she still didn't like the idea of the creepy sculpture staring at her all night long. Carefully, she set it back in its proper place and then, taking a deep breath, walked over and opened the door.

The front room was empty, and she looked around at the now somewhat-familiar pieces of furniture. Around the corner, she could see that the piano was unoccupied, and she shifted a little nervously, wondering where Erik could be.

A slight noise told her, and she went over to the small dining room, peering hesitantly into the kitchen. Erik had given her some more food last night, a very simple meal consisting of thick bread and cold cuts. She had been grateful for it, as she had still been feeling just a little squeamish. Now her stomach was rumbling, and she was looking forward to breakfast.

Erik walked into the dining room, tall and still intimidating, and his yellow eyes lingered on her.

"Sit," he said, and she obeyed, sitting down at the small dining room table. Like the night before, she looked around, seeing that there was only one chair by a table obviously built for at least four people. She felt a little skirmish about that. It was obvious that Erik did not exactly…entertain. Who would want to have dinner with the _Phantom?_

Christine had a small jolt of realization. She had wanted to.

He set a small plate in front of her, and she looked down. It was a piece of dry toast and an apple. Her rumbling stomach told her that this small breakfast would in no way appease her, and she hesitated.

"You are dissatisfied," Erik said instantly, apparently seeing her expression.

"No," she said quickly, smiling up at him. "No, it's fine. Thank you."

"Tell me what bothers you," he said.

"Um…yeah. Could I have a glass of water, maybe?"

"Yes. Of course." He retreated into the kitchen and returned a moment later with her requested water. "You must keep your voice in good condition, which means plenty of fluids."

She munched awkwardly on the dry toast, trying not to cough as it tickled her throat. Erik stood off to the side and watched her for a few minutes. She wondered what his problem was. Maybe he thought she was going to steal something…or something. She looked around. There was nothing in there she could easily take.

The apple tasted good, though she was still hungry after she had finished everything. She could only hope that Erik thought she was still feeling a little sick and that her lunch would be bigger.

When she was back in the front room, she sat down on the leather sofa and looked around again. Now that she wasn't panicking so much, she saw that there was no television, no radio, and no landline telephone. The two windows were still firmly shut, and she wondered if he would open them later that day if she asked. It was a little unnerving to have no sunlight at all in the house.

Erik entered a minute later, and she swiveled back in the couch to look at him.

"Was everything to your liking last night?" he asked. He went and took the seat opposite her, and she drew her knees to her chin before remembering how rude it was to put her feet on someone else's furniture. She quickly put them back down. He continued: "Did you sleep well? Were you warm enough?"

"Yep," she said quickly. "Everything was great. Thank you."

There was a pause, and then he said, "I wish for you to be comfortable here. As comfortable as you can be. You are free to use anything you wish." He waved his long hand around, gesturing to the room. "The only thing I ask is that you refrain from…prying. You understand, I am sure."

"Yeah." She nodded hurriedly. "I wouldn't do that."

They sat in silence for who knew how long, and Christine stared at the intricately-woven rug. She could feel Erik's eyes on her, and she shifted uncomfortably on the leather sofa. It squeaked in protest.

"So…um." She cleared her throat and glanced up at him. "Can we talk about…what happened at the opera? Do you know what…why?"

"Yes," he said, his chin tightening in displeasure. "It was a cowardly attempt to keep you from revealing your true talent."

"Or maybe the managers thought…that someone else deserved the role," she suggested timidly.

"No," he said shortly.

"Okay," she replied.

He paused for a moment and then said, "I intend to further investigate this matter today. There are several people that I must contact."

"When are you going?"

"Later. You require further care."

"Oh. Uh." She kind of felt like a pet. Erik had to feed and water her again before he left the house. "You don't have to wait, Erik," she said. "I can feed myself and keep myself occupied. I promise." She smiled a little. "And I swear that I won't destroy your kitchen." When she saw that he was considering this, she pressed: "Really, Erik. I'll be fine for a little while. Please don't let me keep you from doing…um, the stuff you need to do."

He sighed a little and ran his hand over his dark hair. "Yes," he said at last, standing. "Perhaps I will use this time. I should be back before you retire. Occupy yourself with anything you wish. My home is yours."

"Thanks," she said again, and he left after one final glance.

She sat there for another five minutes, just to ensure that he didn't come back to grab something he forgot. When she was sure that he was gone, she jumped up and ran to the kitchen, eager to eat something substantial.

It was small and modern, and she looked around, seeing that there was a bowl of fruit on the counter. She ignored it and opened the shining refrigerator. With a little gasp and a frown, she saw that it was virtually empty. There was a jug of water, a small carton of milk, some cheese, and some of the cold cuts she had eaten the night before, and that was all. She looked in the drawers and found nothing. The freezer was the same way. Christine looked in all the cupboards, finding nothing but bread, some salt, and a package of stale old crackers. As she looked in the top cupboards, she did find a tin of what appeared to be varying types of tea, and she nearly giggled. Erik didn't peg her as a tea type, but…then again, she really didn't know anything about him.

She suddenly gulped. When she thought about it, she knew nothing at all about him. He was just some weird, masked man. A murderer. She didn't even know his last _name_.

Christine made herself a sandwich with the bread and some of the cold cuts from the fridge, as that was about all there was to make. She ate it slowly and wandered back into the front room, going over to look at his library. Lots of the books were old-looking with no discernible title on the spine. She touched some of them lightly, recognizing a few titles. Most, however, were unfamiliar.

Finishing her sandwich, she continued to look around. Maybe the things in his house would tell her more about her masked teacher.

She went over the piano, looking at the scores of music that were littered around. Giving a quick glance to the front room to make sure that he hadn't snuck in unnoticed, she then tugged on the door that was in the alcove. It didn't budge. With a little sigh, she went back out into the front room.

There were no pictures on the wall—only the few paintings. There weren't any discarded letters or anything else lying around. The house almost looked like no one lived there. It was just a furnished place. There weren't any personal touches, nothing to proclaim it as a home, nothing that stated: _I belong to someone and I am here because someone wishes me to be here and not because I am functional, useful, or tasteful_.

Christine walked back to the bedroom, snooping some more. There was a closet that she hadn't looked in, and she opened it up to see his suits hanging neatly. She wondered if he ever wore anything else. His wardrobe looked meticulous and fussy.

There was nothing under the bed, nothing hidden in the bathroom cupboards…nothing. Christine sat down on the wide bed, sighing harshly. It hadn't been a very eventful or revealing search. His house was tiny, apparently, with only one room each: one bedroom, one bathroom, one sitting room, one kitchen, and one dining room. It reminded her of her tiny apartment, and she suddenly missed it, with its pretty bay window and the soft cream furniture. Here, everything was black and…scary-looking.

But maybe Erik had taken everything away. He had made her promise not to pry, and that was the first thing she had done when alone. He probably knew she would. She suddenly felt very sheepish and guilty. Still, she hadn't found anything, and it wasn't like she was trying to look for anything _bad_. She was just looking for something—anything, really—that would tell her a little more about him.

She went back to his bookshelf and pulled a book out, sitting down on the couch and opening it. Flipping through the pages, she saw glossy prints of pretty pieces of art. The text was in Italian. Christine assumed it to be some kind of art history book, and she spent a while looking through the pictures. She had never been well-informed on art or anything, but she did like looking. The prints were large and the coloring was incredible.

After examining all the pictures, she picked at her hair and nails for another long while, humming vaguely under her breath. She began thinking.

First of all, she thought of the supposed fire. Of course there had been a fire. She hoped that no one was hurt, and she hoped that there hadn't been too much damage. If Erik had really…set the place on fire, she wanted to know why. She knew that he loved music and the opera. Why would he willingly destroy a place where it was performed? Why would he endanger thousands of people? Christine pulled at a curl. She hoped that it didn't take very long for them to repair the damage. Although she was still feeling a little humiliated about her disaster of a "first performance," she wanted to resume her old life—rehearsals and lessons with Erik and the occasional surprise lunch with her friend, Meg. Christine sucked in a deep breath. She hoped that Meg was okay.

Then there was the fact that a gun had been pulled on her yesterday. That still shook her a little. The man—Nadir—had just burst in and had yelled at her and threatened to shoot her. Then Erik had come in and had threatened to shoot _him_. Christine shivered. That had been too many death threats for one _lifetime _for her. She rubbed her eyes a little. Nadir had insisted on taking her away from Erik's house, and Christine wondered if he had the right idea. Erik was a murderer, after all…Was it really that unthinkable to entertain the idea that Erik might kill _her_, too? They had had a little over six months' worth of time together, but Erik was cold and impersonal. He might just be plotting ways to kill her. He might have taken her to his house to kill her in a way that wouldn't leave any clues! Christine choked and clutched at her neck, forcing herself to calm down.

No—no. She was just overreacting, panicking about this new situation. She forced herself to remember all the moments they had had together. Although he wasn't exactly sentimental, Erik had said things to her that no one else would have been able to say without sounding completely insane.

Maybe it was just that Erik really was insane.

Christine flopped back on the leather couch, groaning a little. Everything seemed so messed up. Maybe it would be better if she just went back to her apartment while the damage was being cleaned up. But…somehow she was sure that Erik wouldn't be very thrilled with that suggestion. He seemed intent on keeping her here to make sure that they continued working.

After a while, she closed her eyes and began to doze, fading in and out. Her mind drifted to Raoul, and she wondered where he was, what he was doing…if he was thinking of her at all. She genuinely missed him. She then had a shallow, awful dream in which she pulled off Erik's mask and it turned out to be Raoul, who laughed at her, and then she somehow fell into a deep hole and saw her father's casket in there as well.

She jerked awake quickly, rubbing at her forehead. Looking around, she suddenly felt smothered in the little room, and she went over to the windows and began to tug, trying to pull it open. The more she pulled, the more she realized that she wouldn't be able to open it. Giving an angry grunt, she dug her heels in and pulled as hard as she could, only to have her fingers slip and to land gracelessly on her backside, just as Erik entered.

"Oh." She scrambled to her feet. "Hi—hey."

"Christine," he said. "Have you had an enjoyable day?"

"Yeah. Fine," she said. She shifted her weight from foot to foot a few times, and then she asked, "So…did you find out anything at all?"

"Yes," he replied, and he walked over to the piano and sat down on the bench. "Everything has been taken care of."

"Um—okay," she said, following him. "What happened?"

"I have taken care of everything," he said simply. "Now, you will sing for me. Yes? I wish to keep your voice warm. We will not stretch it today—just a few simple scales and a song or two."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the scales began, and she reluctantly followed them with her voice, almost out of habit. They sang for a while—only a couple easy things, as Erik said, and it was a little comforting to do something so familiar. Erik made minimal corrections and adjustments to her stance and breath work, and then she sailed through two songs with ease. When she was finished, she watched as Erik looked up at her.

"Your voice is perfection incarnate," he said.

"Oh—oh, wow," she stuttered, blushing and laughing a little. She pulled some hair behind her shoulders. "Thanks, Erik. But it's all thanks to you, really. You're an amazing teacher."

"I have merely fine-tuned your exquisite instrument. Your talent will continue as your voice fully matures. You are seemingly limitless, my dear."

Again she smiled, blushed, and said, "Thanks." There was a pause, and then she looked around and said, "Hey, can I ask you a favor?"

"You may ask me anything," he said, and she was surprised at his response. Usually when she asked for something, he replied with sarcasm or bitterness or anger. She put it down to her lesson.

"I was wondering if I could open up the windows. I'm feeling a little stuffy in here."

Erik stood. "Christine, I am afraid that it is raining outside. The windows are best left closed."

"Really?" She paused. "I can't hear anything—no rain on the roof or thunder or anything."

"I have a very thick and well-insulated roof," Erik said, and he laughed a little, like it was some joke. "Come. I shall fix you something else to eat."

Christine followed him and paused in the dining room while he continued on to the kitchen. She peered in a little and then felt encouraged by his apparent good mood.

"I was wondering about something else, too, Erik," she said. He glanced over at her in a gesture to show that he was listening. "Do you want me to go grocery shopping for you?"

He paused in his motion of pulling down a plate. "Why would you need to do that?" he asked. "Have I not provided for you?"

"Well—yeah, of course you have!" she said hurriedly, not wanting him to grow upset. "I was just…I looked around today to get something to eat. You don't have—I mean, um…There wasn't a lot available. I could go out tonight or tomorrow morning or something and get some things."

"What things?" he pressed, setting the plate down a little forcefully.

"More food," she said vaguely. She glanced over at the basket of fruit, feeling a little put-out by the sight of the apples. She was already tired of apples and bread.

"Of course," Erik said. "Certainly. If you feel that way, my dear…" He paused and then looked back over. "I have an idea. You will write down the things you need so you do not forget."

"You want me to make a shopping list?" She smiled. "Yeah, okay, sure."

As she chewed (very unenthusiastically) on an apple, she wrote down the list on the paper Erik had provided her with. It was a long list with basic items: flour, sugar, eggs, vegetables, chicken, spices, beef, and other such things. She showed it to Erik, who nodded, and then she followed him back into the front room, finished with her 'dinner.' Erik sat down at the piano and began to play, and she sat down on the sofa to listen, reclining a little and closing her eyes. It felt peaceful, just like how she used to listen to the radio with Gustave in her old apartment, the two of them simply appreciating the music, and words didn't seem necessary.

A long while passed, and she let her mind drift for a while. As Erik was playing something fast and beautiful and flowing, she sat up straight and looked over at him.

"Erik?" she called. "How long will it be before the damage from the fire is repaired?"

He didn't pause in his playing and looked at the keyboard for a minute before replying, "Several weeks, at best."

"Oh." She scratched her shoulder and looked around. She would be living with Erik for several weeks.

Still…as she sat there and listened to him, she couldn't help but smile a little. He was behaving so…differently, and she had to admit that she liked it. He seemed much calmer and more courteous, willing to do things for her—almost like he was _anxious _to do things for her.

The proof of his readiness to help her came the next morning, when she wandered out of the bedroom for breakfast. Instead of the usual bread and fruit, there was a fried egg and some bacon. Christine inhaled quickly and ate it with vigor, glad to have something substantial in her stomach at last. When she was finished, she went to look in the kitchen.

It was stocked with the things on her grocery list. Everything she had written was there, and she grinned. Maybe the kitchen had been bare because Erik didn't enjoy cooking, but she was more than happy to do so. However, she was a little disappointed that she wasn't able to go to the store. She had been looking forward to getting out for a couple hours.

She turned around and went over to look by the piano. Erik was not there. In fact, she didn't see him for that whole day. Around lunchtime, she felt very grumpy until she saw a note by the bed that she must have missed that morning.

_Christine_

_I apologize for leaving my honored guest so frequently, but there are several other matters that must be attended to in order to make your stay more comfortable. You are welcome to anything in my home. I will return before nightfall._

_E_

Christine sighed a little and set the note back down. Like she would even know when nightfall was. She still had no idea what time it was…what _day _it was. She wondered if Erik would bring her a calendar and a clock if she asked. It wasn't as if she could use the sun to help her deduce what the time was.

She read the note over once again and then paused at the first line, seeing that she hadn't realized it before now: Erik had _apologized _for something. That was a first. In fact, during her few days here, she had seen many firsts for him.

When Erik returned, he greeted her cordially. Christine ate dinner quietly, and then afterward she went up to him and said,

"Erik? Is it okay if I go on a walk?"

He had been putting some more books on the very top of his bookshelf, and he looked down at her, his yellow eyes narrowed a little.

"A walk?" he questioned. "For what purpose?"

"Just to…I dunno, walk. I'd like some fresh air." She was suddenly feeling a little nervous.

Erik paused, and then he resumed putting books up. "Perhaps we will go out in a few days, when the weather is not so disagreeable. You will get soaked to the skin."

"I'll take an umbrella," she promised. "It won't be for very long. I just want to get outside for a little bit."

"No," he said shortly. "I will take you out for air when the weather is fair and I am able to accompany you."

"Oh." Disappointment coursed through her, and she let her eyes drop to the floor. "Okay." She went back over to the couch and sat down, glancing over at him before looking back to the door. Christine rubbed at her eyes.

Why wouldn't he let her go out for a walk? He hadn't even let her go to the store for food…

She watched him for a while, wondering, thinking…

Was she a _prisoner _here?


	31. Chapter 31

The music was more than she had ever dreamed of.

She had reached a connection with it that she hadn't ever thought possible. It ran through her like oxygen, filled her up and made her whole. The hours spent beside the piano, listening or singing, seemed to be some of the most amazing moments of her life. She would sit there and cry silently—not because she was sad or happy, but because she simply felt so full and complete.

Erik seemed to understand.

He made no comments about her behavior but just let her do what she needed. Whenever he played and she approached to listen, he wouldn't stop until the song was over. Then, sometimes he would ask whether she was okay with him continuing, and sometimes she would have to say no, and sometimes she would have to say yes, but he was always willing to do what she requested. It was incredible that so much could be experienced in his small house.

However, those moments of music-filled intoxication weren't as often as she would have liked. Erik had turned out to be a busy man. He was always in and out, and she watched him go, feeling forlorn when he left. She tried not to think about what he did while he was away…killing people, probably. It made her feel slightly sick. And no matter how much she wanted to, she knew it wasn't her place to ask him to quit his 'job.' She had no control over him. If she did ask, he'd probably laugh at her, and that would make her feel even worse. So she tried to content herself by simply not dwelling on it.

Still, their music lessons were enough to make her want to stay with him. He was working her hard and pushing her more. He had also started teaching her the basics of the piano, saying that good singers required skill with more than one instrument. She caught on quickly enough, and even though she wasn't a prodigy, it didn't seem like Erik was expecting her to be. He seemed pleased with her progress in her voice, and that was enough to make his criticism with her piano-playing bearable. Though she felt silly, she couldn't deny that his piano intimidated her a little. It was big and loud and perfectly-tuned, and it required masterful, expert hands to make it sound gorgeous. She plunked away at simple sonatinas and minuets, and the instrument gave a grudging, plunking sound, as if it begrudged her for besmirching it with her mistakes and stumbling over the notes.

Whenever Erik was home, she couldn't practice in peace, either. He was a perfectionist, and wrong notes and missed chords seemed to make him twitchy.

"No, no, no, Christine, you're missing the B flat," he would say from the front room. "And your eighth notes are sloppy. Practice with the metronome."

She was a lot happier when he was playing for her and she was singing. That seemed to be their true roles, the roles that they were most comfortable with. As the Opera was still under repairs, a new production hadn't been announced, and so they were simply practicing a little bit of everything. Erik had even hinted that they might start working a duet, and that had made her fluttery and giggly and excited.

Yet the music never lasted forever. There were times when the piano was left empty, and she would be tired and unwilling to sing anymore. Those times were becoming revealing and awkward.

He was, for the most part, a quiet man. That had surprised her more than anything. There would be long stretches of silence, and he would sit in his chair and write or read or even sketch. She had peeked over his shoulder once at his sketches. It had been of a house, very small and pretty.

"That looks nice. What's it for?" she had said.

"Personal amusement," he had replied shortly, flipping a blank page over the drawing and tucking it away—making it perfectly clear that he didn't appreciate her nosing around.

He seemed to only speak when he had something to say; he was bad at making small talk. She tried to pull conversation out of him, but he was hard to pry open. Only in his rare moods would he humor her with a meaningless chat.

And yet, through all the days and all the quiet moments they shared, he still did not take off his mask. He had removed his gloves a few more times, usually in the morning, just after she had woken up (most of the time they were back on around lunchtime). But he still wore his black suits that covered every inch of him; he still had his mask tied on tightly. He never seemed to simply relax. Although he would occasionally shed his suit coat or leave his shaggy hair a little rumpled, he was always tense and uptight.

With a little huff, Christine blew some hair out of her face and risked another look into the front room. Erik was still there, sitting in his large chair. She had been surprised to see him with a laptop. It had felt as if all electronics had become obliterated in his house. However, he was gazing intently at the screen, the light illuminating his mask. She wondered what he was looking at.

After a moment, he must have sensed her gaze, because his eyes went straight up and onto her. She jumped a little and then blushed to her roots, forcing a smile and a nervous laugh.

"Oh. Heh, sorry." She cleared her throat quickly. "I was just wondering—do you want to eat with me? I made enough for two…"

She knew the answer before he said it, because it had been his response every time she had asked.

"No…thank you," he said, the last part always coming out like an afterthought, something he had to make himself say, and he returned his gaze to the screen. His long fingers came up to his hairline, and her pressed two fingertips into it.

"Okay," she said, not ready to argue with him. "Hey—well, can we open the windows today? It feels stuffy in here."

"Perhaps you should lie down for a while if you feel uncomfortable," Erik said, not even bothering to answer her question. His gaze lingered on her.

"I feel fine," she said instantly, though honestly her stomach was twisting a little. Erik still hadn't let her leave the house or open the windows. She was beginning to go crazy inside the tiny house. She hadn't ever been an 'outdoorsy' type, but she did want to leave the house just for a little while. She was also trying to see if Erik would let her go outside. The thought that he was keeping her here was a little insane. But…she had to remind herself that she was dealing with Erik. He did not behave like normal people. If he wanted to keep her here, he probably would without any qualms.

He still hadn't talked to her about what had happened on opening night, and she wondered if it was going to be like with her father. She would have to pester him so much that he exploded and snapped the answers at her. Then she would regret ever knowing. Christine rubbed at her face. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

After she ate breakfast the next day, she was forced to sit around and watch as Erik readied himself for another mysterious outing.

"Could I go with you?" she asked hopefully. He was buttoning his suit coat, and he looked up at her. Trying to persuade him, she grabbed his gloves he had tossed onto the end table and held them out helpfully. "Please?"

He paused and then reached out to take them, his fingertips lightly brushing her skin. She knew it was deliberate.

"Perhaps another day," he then said, pulling the gloves over his unnaturally-long fingers. "This must be done without accompaniment. I will return shortly."

Leaving her disappointed, he turned and exited. Her head was spinning with all sorts of thoughts, and she turned and went to the kitchen, intent on making herself some weak tea.

As she was waiting for the water to boil, she heard the door open and close, and she went back to the front room to see. Erik couldn't have finished everything he needed to in a matter of minutes, could he?

She looked, and it wasn't Erik. Feeling herself pale a little, she backed into the doorway as the man held out his hands in a placating manner. It was the dark-skinned man who had aimed a gun at her.

"Please, it's all right," he said softly. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, sounding a lot braver than she felt. "Erik told you—he said you couldn't come back here!"

The man laughed a little. "Erik has told me similar things too many times to count. He knows I ignore them. It's okay. I promise. Just…calm down. I only want to talk to you for a little bit."

Christine stared at him. His eyes were dark and…kind. He continued to hold his hands up near his shoulders, and he slowly walked over and sat down on the sofa. With a careful gesture, he motioned for her to sit across from him.

"I…" she said, glancing at the spot. "I'm making tea. I'll get you some." She turned and went back into the kitchen, putting her hands over her face. No, _no, no! _Erik had told that man that he didn't want him here anymore. Didn't that guy know Erik was a murderer? Didn't he know that Erik would kill him? Christine didn't want anyone dying!

Still, she finished preparing the tea with shaking hands, and she carefully loaded some things onto the tray and walked back out, feeling a little silly.

"Thank you," the man said graciously as she handed him a cup. He took a sip and smiled at her over the brim of his cup, his eyes crinkling as he did so. "We've never been introduced properly. I'm Nadir Khan."

"Um…Christine," she said awkwardly, taking a seat on the high-backed armchair that Erik usually favored. She tapped her finger on the side of her delicate teacup. Erik had an incredibly-beautiful china tea set that she had found stowed away one afternoon. She hoped it was okay for her to use it.

"I know you probably don't want to see me here," Mr. Khan said. "I didn't exactly make a good impression the last time we met. I…Well. You probably can't understand, but it was just so…strange seeing someone else in Erik's house. I thought you had somehow managed to find it and break in. I'm really very sorry for scaring you like that."

"It's okay," Christine mumbled. She glanced at Mr. Khan's breast pocket, wondering if a gun was hidden behind his jacket.

"I hope I can make it up to you somehow," Mr. Khan said. His voice was smooth and calm and slightly-accented, and although she told herself to fight it, she couldn't help but begin to soften toward him a little. He seemed genuine and polite and caring. Maybe it was because she hadn't talked to someone besides Erik in a while, but she felt a willingness to speak with him.

"So—so how do you know Erik?" she asked.

"How do _you _know Erik?" Mr. Khan echoed, his voice much more serious. "I am genuinely confused, Christine. How did you meet him?"

She took another drink of her tea and then told him what had happened to her over the past six months—her father's disappearance, her desperation, Erik's insane bargain, her audition, her father's death, that horrible night of the fire…It took a lot longer to explain than she had anticipated, and it actually felt really good to be able to tell someone about all the unbelievable things that had happened to her. She felt as if she was unburdening herself. Mr. Khan was very quiet and only made an occasional noise to encourage her to continue. He looked genuinely interested in her story.

When she was finished, she watched as he ran a hand over his face and sighed deeply, leaning back onto the leather sofa. He watched her with something of a curious fascination.

"I am somehow not surprised that Erik never mentioned you," he said, the corner of his lip twitching a little. "It seems like he wanted you to be his secret—an unprecedented singer rising from obscurity. He's a little dramatic, if you hadn't noticed."

Christine laughed a little. "Yep. I didn't used to think this, but now most of the time I think it's kinda sweet and funny. Then sometimes it's just…weird."

Mr. Khan managed to smile. "Yes. He is…weird. No doubt about that."

"So you know him? Do you know him pretty well?" Christine asked, feeling her heart begin to pound in excitement. Maybe at last—answers!

"Yes. Probably better than anyone else," Mr. Khan said, scratching his chin as if in thought. "Our relationship is…a little unorthodox. I guess there's no orthodox relationship when it comes to Erik, though. I mean, according to you, you've known him for more than six months, and just what can you tell me about him?"

Christine thought. "Not much," she said honestly. "He's a pretty private guy, I guess." She scooted a little closer to Mr. Khan and put her teacup down. "What do you know about him?"

Mr. Khan rested his elbow on the armrest and put his cheek into his palm, looking at her carefully. "I always think I know something about him, and then he completely changes. I'm trying to figure something out right now, actually. Maybe you can help me."

"I'll try," she said earnestly, and he smiled again at that.

"I'm assuming that you know about Erik's…um—very specialized line of work? You're aware of it?"

Christine nodded, saying softly, "I know. It's awful."

"Well, there've been some whispers and rumors. I'm not part of _that_ group—the type of people he works for—but I have enough connections to know that something's happened." Mr. Khan paused, and Christine bit her lip. "Some months ago, around February, I believe, Erik…stopped. Just stopped. Apparently he hasn't…accepted another job since then. Not one."

Christine felt her heart contract suddenly and then expand. Erik hadn't killed anyone since February? What made him stop? She was glad, of course—over the moon, really—but she was also confused.

"Why?" she asked.

Mr. Khan shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, I suppose. I came here to see if you knew why. Did anything happen around February? Anything unusual that might have made him…er, do this?"

Christine thought back. She had gotten into a fight with Raoul around then. Her father had still been alive (she felt her throat seize up a little and swallowed hastily). She had baked Erik some cookies. He had been shocked over that, yes, but it wasn't as if Erik wouldn't stop killing people for money over a plate of sugar cookies.

She looked back to Mr. Khan and shook her head. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I'm…glad, though."

"I am as well," Mr. Khan said. "Obviously a few people were upset about the news, but it isn't as if they'd confront him about it." He chuckled. "Erik can be a little intimidating, I guess."

Christine laughed nervously. "Yeah."

"I'm also a little puzzled as to your being here," Mr. Khan continued. "I'm assuming the decision was a long time coming and very deliberated. Right?"

"Um, no, actually," said Christine with a shake of her head. "He just sort of grabbed me and took me down here. Literally, actually. That's just what happened. He never told me anything about it."

Mr. Khan stared at her for a long while and then stood, pacing behind the couch, sighing a few times and pressing his fingertips to his eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," he replied quickly. "Just…confused. This whole thing goes against every single one of Erik's personal rules and conduct. I don't understand."

"Well, he's a confusing guy," Christine said, wanting to be helpful. "He does a lot of crazy stuff."

"Yes, but there is always a method to the 'crazy stuff' he does," Mr. Khan said. "I've known him for nearly twenty years. He does things for a reason. And—no offense to you, Christine—but I can't see any reason for him doing this. I've been trying to figure things out on my own, but I've gotten nowhere. I just don't want to see an innocent person get tangled up in his twisted life. He's…he's a heavily-damaged man."

Christine listened intently, trying to soak it all in. Mr. Khan finished pacing and resumed his seat on the couch, rubbing his eyes and looking tired.

"Maybe you'd like it if I took you back up," he then said. "You can go if you want. You're not his prisoner."

"Back up?" she questioned at last. "What do you mean?"

"Back up—to the…" He trailed off. "Do you not know where you are?"

"Erik's apartment…?" she tried feebly. "I don't know where it is, actually."

Mr. Khan laughed hollowly. "It's a good thing you're sitting down. Erik actually has maybe a dozen different apartments and hiding spots throughout the city, but this is his favorite for many reasons. It's underneath the Opera House."

Christine paused and stared. "Like…in the basement? A house in the basement?"

Mr. Khan smiled a little facetiously. "Much, much farther down. _Much_. It's the farthest down you can go."

"We're underground?" Christine looked around, staring at the eternally-shut windows. She suddenly groaned and pushed her hands over her eyes. "Ugh, I'm so stupid!" she snapped. "I kept asking him to open the windows, and he kept saying no. And he wouldn't let me go out to take a walk or go to the store. He kept saying no! And there aren't any other windows, and…I'm so dumb!"

"No, Christine, you're not," Mr. Khan assured her kindly. "This isn't exactly a common answer. You couldn't have known where you are. But it's okay. If you want, I'll take you back up."

Christine lowered her hands. "Erik wants me to stay here with him," she said.

"You don't have to," Mr. Khan said. "Not if you want to go home."

She bit her lip, glancing around the small house. The small house _underneath _the Opera House. It was a lot to take in very suddenly. And now she had an opportunity to leave.

But she didn't want to. For some reason, she wanted to stay down here with Erik, in his strange little house and in his strange company. When she thought about going back to her tiny apartment, she felt reluctance. Maybe she just wanted company…but she knew that she wanted _Erik's _company.

"I want to stay," she said softly.

Mr. Khan sucked in a little breath. "Christine, I don't think you fully realize that…Well, Erik's a dangerous man. I don't have to tell you that, I'm sure. But, please just think. Maybe it would be best if you left and visited him occasionally—if you really wanted to spend time with him."

"I think he wants me here," she admitted. "I'm going to stay, if that's all right."

While she was talking, Mr. Khan pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. He grimaced and stood.

"I'm afraid I've outstayed my welcome," he said, tucking his phone back in. "If you really want to stay, I guess I can't force you to come. Just…please be careful, Christine. All right? I'll try to come back later to check up on you." He looked at her one last time and then hurried out the door. Now that he was leaving, Christine could clearly see that no sunlight poured in through the door while it was open. She felt so stupid for never having noticed it before. _Underneath _the Opera House…Erik had made that remark about his roof being well-insulated. She scoffed a little.

As she was cleaning up the tea mess, she heard the door open and close again, and this time she knew it was Erik. She wiped her hands dry and then went out to see him. He was looking around the front room, and his eyes narrowed a little. When he saw her, he paused for a moment and then said,

"Did you enjoy Nadir's visit?"

Christine gaped a little. He knew—there was no attempt trying to hide it. Then she felt a blush sting her cheeks, and she said quickly, "Um…I guess so. But—how did you…?"

Erik chuckled a little; perhaps not as nicely as she would have liked. "Christine, surely you must realize by now that Erik knows everything. Now. Tell me what he said to you."

"Oh—oh." She pushed some hair out of her face and behind her ears, and then she let her hand drop to her neck, automatically wanting to tug at her necklace. When she felt bare skin and remembered, she forced her hand to drop to her side quickly, fisting it. She needed to get it into her head that the necklace was not there anymore. "Uh…Well. He just asked if I was doing okay and stuff. I said I was fine. He kept asking me why I was here. And Erik? Really—_why _am I here? I mean, I like it, it's fine. I just feel like…I dunno. I don't want to bother you or pester you. You're a really busy guy. I don't want my staying here to interfere with your life."

"You are here because I wish for you to be here," Erik said smoothly. "It is my wish for you to remain with me. Your voice is on the threshold. You will advance so much here, Christine. Nadir does not understand such things. No one else understands what we do. They cannot understand our music."

He was right, of course. Christine hadn't met anyone who could feel the connection like Erik did. Maybe there _were _others out there, but Erik was here, and he understood. She nodded.

"And Nadir said that—that we're _under _the Opera House. Is that true, too? Is that why I could never go out?"

Erik laughed again. "Location, location, location. I had hoped you would be pleased. You have never left the Opera House! You are where you belong—ensconced in a place that is built on music. _We _belong here, Christine. You and I. Together."

She stared at him, wondering if he was being serious. His eyes looked…frightening. Almost a little desperate. They had an unnatural glow that was making her feel very uncomfortable. With a forced smile, she tugged at her hair and dropped her gaze.

"But you wish to go out," Erik continued, and his voice was softer. "That is understandable. You are not accustomed to this world. Perhaps in a few days we might venture out. Would you enjoy that?"

Christine nodded immediately. "Yeah. I really would. Thanks."

"It is my pleasure to see that you are happy here," Erik said, and his voice was so soft and so _genuine _that she was startled. She remembered the first times she had seen him and spoken to him. He had been so harsh and mean and bitter—he had made her cry countless times. And now she was here, staying with him and listening as he told her that he wanted her to be happy during her stay.

And maybe...She looked at his glowing eyes...Maybe she could be.


	32. Chapter 32

It was a very warm summer night, and although the sun was disappearing behind the skyline of the city, it was still turning out to be a bright evening. Christine was looking out of the window, watching the sidewalks and enjoying the sights. It was cool in the car, and it moved at an easy, unhurried speed.

Erik had made good on his agreement to take her out, and although it wasn't exactly what she had had in mind (her idea being a walk in the park or something similar), she wouldn't complain about being out of the small house for a while. They had emerged from the Opera House through a back door in an alleyway, and a shiny black car was waiting for them. It was one of the small limo-type cars with drivers and other fancy rich stuff. Erik had opened the door for her, and she had climbed into see that, true enough, a dark screen separated them from the driver.

They had ridden in silence for a long while, but she could feel Erik's eyes on her. It was making her prickle slightly, though she tried her best to ignore it.

"I've actually never been to this part of the city before," she commented at last, craning her head up to look at the tall skyscrapers. "It's so big! I think Raoul works somewhere down here…" She trailed off and then regretted what she had said, because she could practically _see _Erik tense at the mention of her ex-boyfriend.

Not wanting to hear one of his 'Raoul-would-have-made-you-miserable' speeches, she quickly said, "These buildings are so tall! Wow. I'd probably be scared to work in them, heh."

"No. Your destiny is the stage," Erik said, his voice almost slithering out of the dark corner he sat in. "These meaningless, commonplace, irrelevant jobs are not for you."

They stopped, presumably waiting for a light, and then Christine at last voiced a worry she had had, "But…but what if it isn't anymore, Erik? I mean, what happened that night—"

"Was no fault of yours!" Erik interrupted quickly, his voice rising in volume. "You were envied for your talent. There was no long-lasting damage done. We shall simply postpone your world debut a little longer. And by then you will be ready to send the world to its knees."

Whenever he spoke this way, it did two things to her: it emboldened her and gave her confidence, but somehow it also made her doubt. Was she really as good as Erik said she was? _He _was obviously a genius, so that meant that he probably knew what he was talking about…But still. It was a little nerve-wracking when he talked about bringing 'the world to its knees.'

The car took off again, and Christine continued to look. Not wanting to continue talking about her voice and her 'destiny,' she quickly commented, "Aww! Look at that little bakery—the one with the cakes in the window. It's so cute!"

Erik then pushed a button that was underneath the window and said, "Pull over immediately." The car obeyed, swerving to the curb and stopping smoothly. Christine turned to look at him in question.

"Do you wish for something in there?" Erik pressed. "Whatever you wish shall be yours, Christine."

"Oh, Erik, I…" She felt a little embarrassed and a little…flattered. He had pulled over because she said a bakery was 'cute.' Still, she didn't want to seem childish or greedy, and so she said, "No—no, I'm…"

He pulled something out of his suit coat and held it out to her. It was a fold of bills. "I will wait for you here for five minutes," he said. "Buy whatever you desire."

Carefully, she took the money from him and then smiled. "Thanks," she said. The door opened at her touch (she was a little surprised at that). "I'll be right back."

She stepped out into the warm night air, breathing in deeply. She was glad that she had an opportunity to actually _be _outside and among people—not riding in a dark car, staring at them.

Clutching the money in her hand carefully, she made her way into the bakery, instantly overwhelmed by the rich, overpowering smell of cakes, candies, and other sweets.

The red-headed counter girl smiled at her as she entered, and Christine smiled back. Then she looked around for a couple minutes, trying to decide if she wanted some pre-packaged homemade candy or something fresh. She glanced back out, the wide window of the bakery making it easy to see outside. The dark black car was still there, waiting for her. Christine swallowed a little. What if she didn't go back? What if she just walked out the door and headed for the nearest bus station? Would Erik get out and chase her? But…she wasn't his prisoner! She was perfectly able to do whatever she pleased.

Wasn't she?

As she was thinking these unsettling thoughts, she got in line behind an older couple who were arguing about whether to buy a cake from the bakery or get a cheap one from a grocery store. Christine scratched her wrist, frowning a little in confusion. Maybe she was like…a willing prisoner or something. After all, she hadn't ever specifically _told _Erik that she wanted to leave. She had asked repeatedly if she could go outside, but he had always refused, and now she understood why. The walk to the surface took a while, and it was dark and actually pretty scary. During the trek up, Christine had really considered asking him to take her back to the house. However, the desire for fresh air and human interaction had silenced her.

And Erik was going to send her home as soon as the damage from the fire was repaired. It wasn't like she was staying forever. He just wanted her nearby…for some reason.

Christine was sure that she did know the reason, but she didn't even want to admit it to herself in thought.

As she was trying to get herself to think of other things, she felt something tap her shoulder, and she looked around, half-expecting Erik to be there.

To her shock, it was Raoul. He smiled at her, and she gaped. What was he doing here?

"What are you doing here?" she asked stupidly.

His smile widened. "Working late," he said, shrugging. "I need some coffee and some sugar. What are _you _doing here?"

"Getting cupcakes," she replied. There was an awkward moment of silence. The girl at the counter, who had been rolling her eyes at the older couple's argument, suddenly spotted Raoul, and her entire demeanor changed.

"Hi, Raoul!" she called breathlessly, waving, a blush on her cheeks that clashed awfully with her red hair.

He smiled and waved back. "Hey, Kate."

The girl giggled, and Christine felt her insides bristle with jealousy. Then she quickly suppressed it and reminded herself that Raoul was _not _her boyfriend anymore, and he had perfect liberty to talk to whoever he wanted.

"So…how's your singing going?" Raoul then asked.

"Fine," she said, somewhat snappishly, and then she felt bad. She didn't want to be mean to him. He didn't deserve it. He hadn't done anything wrong, really.

"That's good," he said. "Looks like you're doing well for yourself." He gestured out to the shining black car.

"That's not mine," she said. "It's my…friend's."

"Really?" he said. "Who is she? Does she work at the Opera House with you?"

"It's a him. And yeah, sorta," she said. She shifted and tugged at some curls, feeling bad for making it a point to tell Raoul that her 'friend' was a man. Maybe it would've been better if she had simply let him assume whatever he wanted.

Raoul paused for a long while and then said, changing the subject, "I heard about the fire. I'm really glad you're okay. I actually tried calling you a couple times to make sure, but…yeah. Anyway. It's good to see you again."

Christine realized that she had left her cell phone and purse in the dressing room, and she had been unable to grab them before Erik had taken her down to his house. She hadn't even given it a thought until now.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she then said. The old couple then decided to _not _get a cake at all, and they shuffled out. Christine stepped up to the counter and asked for a cupcake. "Actually, give me two," she added quickly, and she handed over some of the money Erik had given her. As she was turning to leave, clutching the paper bag in her hands, Raoul grabbed her arm.

"Hey, are you busy now? Do you want to catch up? I'd love to hear about your singing."

"I have to go, actually," she said, quickly pulling her arm out of his grasp—maybe too quickly, because he looked a little hurt. Erik had told her he would wait for five minutes, and she was pretty sure her five minutes were over. And…it wasn't as if she could just walk off with Raoul while Erik was sitting there in a car. She didn't think that Erik would get out and actually _hurt _someone, but…it was probably best if she didn't push her luck with him.

"Oh," Raoul said disappointedly. "Okay. Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Christine said, glancing outside one more time. The black car was still there. "Bye."

"See you around, I guess," he said, and Christine hurried out of the shop, feeling Raoul's eyes following her. She climbed into the backseat and shut the door. Now that Raoul's eyes weren't following her, she could feel Erik's eyes on her. Christine glanced out of the window and realized, with a little jerk in her stomach, that Raoul was in perfect view through the window, and he was looking at the black car, frowning a little.

"What an extraordinary coincidence," Erik suddenly remarked, somewhat…too calm.

"Yeah, I know," she said, laughing nervously. "Small world, I guess."

"Yes. I suppose," he said softly. Then he pushed the button again and snapped, "Drive." The car lurched forward, and Christine toppled backward into the seat. After straightening herself out with an embarrassed blush, she passed over the extra money to Erik and opened the bag.

"I don't know which one you like best, so you can pick," Christine said, trying to break through the awkward intensity that was milling around the backseat. She pulled out the two cupcakes, presenting them to him. "There's chocolate and vanilla. I love both, so you can choose whichever one you like better."

There was a small moment of silence, his suspicion and apparent aggravation vanishing in surprise. "You were to buy something for yourself," he then said.

"I did," Christine replied, holding up the cupcakes. "One for you, one for me. Don't you want one?"

After more waiting, Christine was a little relieved when Erik stretched out his hand and picked up one of them, holding it carefully between his long fingers.

"Good choice," she said, forcing herself to smile at him. She was pretty positive that he hadn't made a real choice—he had simply reached out and grabbed the first one he could touch because he wasn't sure what else to do. She ate hers quietly, glad to have something sweet.

The sun was gone now, but the streets were illuminated by the numerous shops and buildings and cafes and streetlamps. People were still out, enjoying the warm summer night. Couples were walking down the streets, hand-in-hand, and Christine let her gaze linger on them for a little bit, feeling sad. Then she forced herself to stop feeling sorry for herself and finished off her cupcake.

She glanced toward Erik and saw that his glowing eyes were still looking at her. The cupcake had disappeared, and she was pretty positive that he hadn't eaten it. But it still made her feel good to know that he had humored her and had taken one from her.

"Perhaps you wish to return now," he said after a while longer.

"Sure," she said. "That's fine."

But she wasn't sure if she should go back.

It was a little disconcerting to be back underground after being above it…almost like she had forgotten. As they walked, she noticed how loud her breathing was, and she tried to quiet herself. It was so silent underground.

As soon as they had started walking down the long hallways and stairways, Christine had become a little scared by the dark. Normally it didn't bother her too much, but this was…_dark_. The only light was from Erik's glowing eyes, and that wasn't very comforting. While walking down a steep staircase, she had stumbled a little and had instantly grabbed his arm and shoulder to keep from falling on her face.

"Oops," she had then whispered after she had steadied herself. "Sorry. I almost fell." Cautiously, carefully, and slowly, she slid her hand down his arm and gingerly grabbed his cuff. She had hoped he wouldn't mind.

There was a long pause, and Erik's gaze rested on her face for a long time, as if testing to see if she would keep hold of him.

"It's dark down here," she had said, trying to explain. "And…kinda scary. And I don't want to fall or get lost because I can't see you."

After another moment, he turned around and began to walk again.

They were continuing on their way, and Christine was quietly mulling over what her stay here meant and how it looked from an outsider's perspective. Weird, she was sure…But nobody really understood the strange sort of…_relationship _she had with Erik. Not that they were _in _a relationship or anything. But…she was living in his house. A murderer's house. A murderer's underground house.

Christine felt her breath hitch, and she looked up to Erik. His legs were longer than hers, and so she had to walk a little faster than she normally would to keep up with him. Gathering her breath and some courage, she said,

"Erik?"

"Yes?" he replied without pause.

"I was wondering…It's just a question. Mr. Khan was telling me—"

"You would be wise to take a grain of salt with everything Nadir says, Christine," Erik interrupted.

"Yeah," she said, unsure of what else to say. "Um, anyway. He was telling me that you…Uh, that you haven't—haven't done…your job since February."

Erik paused and turned to look at her, his glowing eyes fixated on her.

"Is that true?" she whispered at last, needing to know. "Erik? …Is it?"

There was another long moment of silence, and they stood there, her gripping his sleeve tightly. Christine felt her heart beating loudly. She was hoping…praying…

Finally, Erik said, "Yes. I have…retired, as it were."

A hot swoop of relief and joy burst through her, and she felt a huge grin spread on her lips.

"Really?" she breathed. "Erik! Thank you! Thank you!"

He looked suspicious. "Why should this please you?" he asked.

"Because…because…" she stuttered. Why _wouldn't _it please her? "Because you're not killing people anymore! I don't…like it that you killed people."

"Is that so?" he said, almost sounding _amused_.

"Of course! Of course I didn't like the fact that people paid you to…kill other people. I'm glad you stopped. I'm really happy you did."

After a moment, Erik said, "I would do any number of things for your happiness, Christine."

"I know," she said, feeling her hot cheeks sting against the cool air. "Thank you." Then she ventured to say, "Erik? Do you mind…if I ask why?"

"Why?" he echoed in confusion.

"Why you stopped."

"Ah." He turned back around and began walking. She followed him obediently, hoping that they were close to the house. She was beginning to feel a little tired from the long trek up and down.

For a few minutes, he was silent, and she wondered if he was going to answer her question. Just when she was going to ask him again, he said,

"How can I destroy after what you have given me?"

Christine blinked, completely confused. What was he even talking about?

"Um…what?" she said. "What did I give you?" She thought back. _Cookies?_

He stopped again and turned to look, his eyes oddly bright.

"You gave me your soul," he said. "When you sang…for me. When the music lived in you. I experienced it with you, and something so profound has an effect, you see. I cannot destroy, not when I carry the pure light and innocence you have given me. I cannot sully you. I would never wish to do such a thing to you, my Christine. Surely you understand this."

She nodded immediately, not understanding at all. What did he even mean about her soul and the 'pure light' and him 'sullying her' and everything else? Did he expect her to understand?

"Yeah, Erik," she said, her voice cracking a little. "Thanks…thank you. I'm glad you—you retired."

When they were back, she wrapped herself up in a blanket. Erik had promised to play his violin for her, and she was looking forward to it immensely. Although she was still a little shaky from what had just happened in the tunnels, she didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Erik was…strange, that was all. It probably wasn't good to read too much into his words. And even though he obviously cared about her a lot, the number one reason she was here was to practice and to improve her voice.

"I have a gift for you."

She saw that he was watching her carefully, and her heart began to flutter a little.

"Really?" she asked, trying not to sound too childish. "What is it?"

He moved closer to her, pulling something small out of his pocket. She looked as he slowly took her left hand and pulled it up a little.

To her shock, he slipped a gold ring onto her finger. It was cool and smooth, and Christine stared at it.

"It is merely a token," Erik then said, seemingly a little unnerved by her silence. "Nothing more, I assure you. It is a symbol of your devotion to the music."

"Yeah," she managed to breathe. "Yeah. It's fine. It's great." She flexed her fingers, the weight of the ring unfamiliar but not uncomfortable. "Thank you, Erik. It's pretty."

"You will wear it always," he said. "It is yours to wear forever."

She managed to smile, though she kept her lips sealed. She didn't know about _forever…_Eventually that ring would have to come off to make way for a wedding ring. Still, it was a gift from Erik, and she wanted to make him happy, so she would wear it for the duration of her stay.

Christine went to the couch and sat down, pulling her legs up to tuck her feet underneath her. Erik had gone over to his violin and was rosining his bow, the horsehair glinting a little. She could see the dust of the rosin rise up in the air. He had removed his gloves, and his bony fingers somehow looked graceful as they adjusted the bow tension and fiddled a little with the fine tuners of the violin. He tucked it underneath his chin, and somehow it looked so natural and complete being there. She was amazed that he hadn't mentioned it earlier. He set the bow on the strings, the anticipation heavy in the air, and he looked at her for a few long moments. Christine felt her heart stop, and then it began to pound heavily.

This new aspect in her life was terrifying. During the past months, she had never even considered factoring in Erik's love for her—and she knew he did love her. Now that she knew, now that he knew she knew, how would things change? Would he keep her down here forever? Would he try to make her love him back? She was afraid to ask and afraid to even think of it.

Somehow, his music managed to draw her away from her own troubling thoughts for a while, and she closed her eyes and listened to the beautiful sounds filling the air. While the violin reminded her of her father, the music did not. This music was beautiful, but there was an undercurrent of something else, something that had never been present when Gustave had played for her. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not.

After he finished, she wiped away a few tears and clapped for him. "That was amazing," she said honestly. "You're so talented."

"Thank you." His response was, oddly, courteous, and as he looked at her, his eyes glowing and his thin mouth stretched into what she thought was the first smile she had ever seen him give, she suddenly felt incredibly sad. Could they really come out of this whole thing unscathed and happy? She wasn't sure if she wanted to be honest answering herself.


	33. Chapter 33

Christine huffed a little frustrated sigh and pushed some hair out of her face, irritated by it. It kept tickling her nose, and she rubbed her nose with her wrist, watching the pots and pans on the stove before her. Steam was filling up the room, and she was trying to keep everything under control.

She had been feeling a little homesick over the past few days, and so she had finally decided to go all-out and cook a Swedish meal for herself. And for Erik, of course, but he would never eat it. It was nice of him to have given her full reign in the kitchen. He usually stayed away completely while she was cooking, allowing her to fend for herself. She knew that he would cook for her if she asked, but…she wasn't quite ready for bread and fruit as her sole options. So it was better all around if she was simply able to prepare her own meals.

However, the food did _not _seem to be cooperating at the moment, and there were too many pots and too many pans that required her attention. Christine stirred this, fried that, and hurriedly tried to keep everything under check. The smell of the food was making her heart ache a little. It reminded her of Gustave. She wished that she had thought to bring him something traditional during his last days at the hospital…Instead he had had to be content with processed, awful hospital food.

With another small sigh, she pushed her hair back again and then lifted the lid off of a pan. She quickly gave a muffled yelp as a plume of black smoke wafted up from it. Coughing and waving it away, she looked over and saw that she had burned the contents of the pan. With a groan, she took the pan away and rinsed it out, knowing that there was nothing to be saved and knowing that there wasn't anything left to start over with.

Thankfully, Erik had been in a surprisingly-good mood that day, and so she shuffled over to the front room. He was on his laptop again, looking very focused.

"Hey—um, Erik?" she said quietly.

He looked up at her. "Christine," he said. "What is it you need?"

"Yeah, I really hate to ask you this…I'm so sorry, but I'm making _wallenbergare_, and I accidentally just burned my cream sauce. Would you mind…? I need more cream, but you're out. Please?"

"Of course." He stood. "I shall return soon."

Christine couldn't help but smile. "You're also almost out of eggs…if you want to just pick some up on the way."

He nodded, pulling his gloves on.

"I promise I won't burn the house down while you're gone," Christine said, laughing. Erik chuckled a little at her silly attempt at a joke, and then he was gone, out the door. Trying not to feel too pleased, she returned to the kitchen.

Ever since her inevitable and long-delayed realization that Erik was in love with her, she had had a mixture of feelings whenever she was around him. For the most part, she had felt supreme flattery. Why would a man so obviously talented care about her? Erik was turning out to be a genius in all aspects. Even though he was quiet for the most part, he was still able to answer any question she had…about anything. Why would such a virtuoso be interested in her? She wasn't the prettiest or the most talented or the nicest or the funniest girl in the world…She was just Christine. Yet for some reason that was what Erik wanted.

She also felt anxiety. Erik was a _murderer_. He had killed more people than she wanted to know. Even though he had stopped, that still didn't excuse all the bad things he had done before. She couldn't just brush aside all of that. It was something that would always be there, chewing at her…

Everything was ready now. She was just waiting for the cream. Carefully, she put lids over the food and set the temperature to low, wanting to keep it all warm until Erik returned with the things she needed. It was nice of him to get up from what he was doing to get a few things from the store for her. She would have done it herself, but…she didn't want to wander those tunnels by herself. They were scary enough with Erik as her guide.

She heard the door open, and she went out to see him, a smile creeping onto her lips without her even realizing it.

But it wasn't Erik—it was Mr. Khan again, and he smiled a little at her.

"Hello, Christine," he said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she said, feeling a little suspicious. "I don't want to be rude, but, um…Erik said—"

"What Erik doesn't know won't hurt him," Mr. Khan said comfortably, sitting down.

"But he knew last time," Christine said. "He knew you had been here…"

"That's fine," Mr. Khan said with a smile. "Why don't you sit down? We can talk for a few minutes while he's out. I saw him go. No harm done, Christine, I promise. I just want to check up on you."

Christine glanced over to the door and then over to the kitchen before nodding and carefully curling up in Erik's huge armchair across from Mr. Khan. She looked at him, wondering how he was nonchalant about standing up to Erik and blatantly going against the masked man's wishes.

"Well, I'm fine," Christine then said, breaking the silence. "Erik has been fine, too, I think. We're just…practicing and stuff. He took me up the other day and took me on a drive around the city."

"That's good," Mr. Khan murmured, looking at her closely. "Though you look a little pale, Christine."

"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised," she said, shrugging. "I can't find a single mirror in this house, you know? It's kind of crazy and a little frustrating. I don't know what I look like ever!"

"Yes. Erik isn't too fond of mirrors." There was a pause, and then Mr. Khan suddenly asked, "Do you know a man named Raoul de Chagny?"

Christine started in surprise, and she nodded quickly. "We dated for a while."

"And…are you still with him?"

She resisted glaring. "Of course not," she said. "We had…problems. About my singing. He thought it was a waste of time, so I broke it off. And I wouldn't be here if I was still dating him. That would be wrong."

Mr. Khan rubbed the side of his head with two of his fingers. "He's been going around the Opera, asking for you," he said.

"Oh," Christine said simply, unsure of how she felt about this. Why would Raoul do that? It felt somewhat _too _coincidental to her: running into him at the bakery and then suddenly Mr. Khan asking about him.

"Well, I guess he's worried about you because of the fire," Mr. Khan said. "I've heard he's worried because he can't get a hold of you. It's natural."

"I just saw him the other day," she said, frowning a bit. "It was a big coincidence."

"Yes. Well. Maybe I could take you back up…and you could talk to him and tell him that you're still fine…"

Christine folded her arms resolutely. "You know that Erik wants me here. I'm not leaving him."

"You wouldn't be _leaving _him, Christine," Mr. Khan said, still in a gentle voice. "You shouldn't be here, and you know it."

"Erik needs me here," she said. "I need to be here with him right now—not upstairs talking to Raoul, who probably didn't even give me a second thought until he heard about the fire." And she knew that that probably wasn't even true.

"Christine," Mr. Khan sighed. "I don't think you get what you're saying. You're too young. You don't understand."

"What don't I understand?" Christine said, getting frustrated. "I'm here because Erik wants me here! He—he needs me here." She thought of the time he had insisted that they belonged here, in the Opera House…_together_. Erik needed her to be with him.

Mr. Khan said carefully, "Listen to me. Erik _cannot _be fixed. His mind is too far gone. You're going to sacrifice your whole life for someone who doesn't deserve it. I've known Erik for almost twenty years. He's not a man that anyone can be with."

"I don't even know what you're talking about," Christine said. "Erik is fine, isn't he? He's always been good to me! He's provided everything for me—done everything for me! He wants me to be with him!"

"You have no idea what you're saying!" Mr. Khan said, sounding tired and frustrated. "You don't know _anything _about Erik, Christine. He hasn't told you anything about himself, has he?"

"Well, not really," Christine admitted. "But I haven't asked…"

"I could tell you stories about him that would have you begging me to take you back up," Mr. Khan said. "Erik is not a man to be trusted or to become attached to. Everything he does is for his own selfish purposes. Why can't you see that? He doesn't love. He can't love, Christine."

"Why do you hate him so much?" Christine demanded, not even bothering with blushing, girlish modesty to shyly tell Mr. Khan that Erik didn't love her when they obviously both knew the truth—somehow, Mr. Khan had found out. "Did he do something to you?"

"I don't hate Erik," Mr. Khan said hurriedly. "No, I don't hate him. Our…friendship is…complicated, at best. But it's not even a friendship, in Erik's mind. He doesn't think that way. He's a bad man who's capable of so much, Christine, and that's what is difficult about this entire thing. You're only seeing the good that you think he's capable of—but he'll never fulfill it. He can never change. He is…what he is. And you're too young to be mixed up with him. I just wish that you'd open your eyes and see what it is you're doing."

"Stop talking to me like I'm stupid!" she said, nearly standing up. "I'm not! I know what I'm doing!"

"You _don't!_" Mr. Khan replied hotly. "You have no idea! You're going to throw your entire life away!"

Christine gave an angry grunt and crossed her legs, going defensive immediately. It made her upset that he was talking about Erik like this. Like Erik was some…damaged, delusional crazy person. No. He _wasn't. _He was just a genius, passionate man. So what if he didn't behave like…normal people? He had never hurt her. He had never come close to hurting her…Except that one time she had just met him and had asked for his help to find her _Pappa_. But that had been so long ago, and Erik hadn't even known her.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Khan suddenly said, rubbing his eyes. "I didn't mean to shout. This is difficult. It's hard to remind myself that you know nothing about him. I know that he's made himself seem like a decent man, but if you knew some of the things I know about him…" He looked at her carefully.

"Well, what things?" Christine asked at last, taking the bait. "I know that he's…killed people. But he doesn't do that anymore. He told me."

Mr. Khan looked sad suddenly. "Erik has an…addictive personality. He always needs _something_. When I first met him, it was drugs."

Christine felt herself seize up, and she stared at Mr. Khan in horror. Erik doing _drugs? _He had never seemed like that type of person—the people she had sometimes seen in the streets, with their twitchy hands and their glazed eyes.

"He must have been younger than you," Mr. Khan said, and it sounded like he was determined to tell this story but somehow depressed and upset that he had to. "He was in _very _deep. He was scrounging around the streets of Tehran, fighting and scheming for his next dose. I don't know where he was before that. He hasn't told me anything about his childhood or what had originally drawn him to Tehran—because he was born in France, you know."

"Erik's French?" Christine echoed. "I never knew…He never told me."

"There are a lot of things he hasn't told you," Mr. Khan said. "I tried for months to get him clean, but he was too hooked. I don't know who or where or how or why he started, but they obviously got him good. The only thing that stopped him was when he nearly killed himself while overdosing. Then he worked to get clean, and it wasn't pretty…You can probably just _somewhat _imagine what Erik would be like during a withdrawal stage. It took a long time, but eventually he was able to quit for good."

Christine pulled at a curl, feeling conflicted and confused. Why would Erik feel the need to do drugs? He had been young, yes, but…that didn't excuse it. _She _had never done drugs.

"Well—well, why did you want to get him clean at all?" Christine asked. "I mean, why did you even help him?"

"Because he's brilliant," Mr. Khan said, tapping the armrest a few times. "Completely brilliant. I worked for a special division of the government, and we'd been hearing rumors about him. Even while completely trashed, Erik was a genius. We just wanted to offer him…a job, really. That's all it was. But we couldn't have a drug addict working for us, so they assigned me to be his…er, caretaker, as it were. I don't know what we were thinking. Having someone like _Erik _working for us…"

"What did he do?" she asked.

"Bad things," Mr. Khan replied. "Things that normal people wouldn't do—things only Erik would do."

"Don't say that!" Christine said angrily, desperately. "You're—you're just like everyone else! You think that he's some kind of terrible, evil thing."

"He's not…but he's not a good man, either."

"You've given up on him," Christine said, feeling tears stinging her eyes. She blinked them away furiously. "But I know he can change, Mr. Khan. I've seen him. He wants to do good things, but he doesn't know how because he's spent his whole life doing bad things."

"He does bad things because he likes doing them," Mr. Khan said pleadingly. "I'm so sorry that you're caught up in the middle of this. But he's gotten into your head. You believe him because he makes you believe him. It's all a game to him. You have to see this."

Christine turned away from him abruptly, to signal the end of the conversation and to hide her shining eyes. "I think it's time for you to go now," she said forcefully. "Erik's going to be back soon."

There was a long pause, and then the furniture creaked a little as Mr. Khan stood. "I know it's hard to understand," he said quietly. "Erik is my friend, but I've learned the hard way where the line ends. Erik has no friends, no loyalties except to himself. Please, Christine. Try to understand this. I'm not saying this to try to insult Erik or upset you. I just want you to realize what you're doing to yourself…and to him." So saying, Mr. Khan left, the door clicking shut loudly behind him.

Christine paced and tugged on her curls, taking deep breaths to control oncoming tears. Of course it wasn't true! Mr. Khan was wrong—wrong about everything! She rubbed at her eyes and whimpered on a little sob as she heavily sat back down on the sofa, putting her face in her hands.

A short while later, the door opened, and Erik entered, a box in his arms. A rush of relief flooded her chest, and she leapt up and hurried over to him, grasping his cuff tightly.

"Have you burned down my kitchen, then?" Erik then asked, his usually-cold voice warm and a little teasing.

Christine said, "Erik, you wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

There was a pause, and then he said, "Erik would never lie to his Christine. Why would you ask that? Is something troubling you?" In that moment, she knew he knew, and he continued darkly, "Khan was here, wasn't he? Has he been filling your pretty head with gruesome tales?"

"I just want to know. I need to know, Erik. Have you really—you stopped…killing people. Right? You told me that you have."

Erik nodded. "For you, Christine."

Her heart, which had been constricted, loosened slightly. She then asked, "And it was a long time ago. Right?"

"I have told you before," he said. "That afternoon…when you gave me part of your soul. I could not hold something so pure and precious and then resume wallowing in carnage and blood. I would tarnish you."

His logic still didn't make any sense to her, but she sighed with relief and smiled.

"Thank you," she murmured. "That makes me…really happy, Erik."

There was a pause, and then Erik shifted his weight a little. "I have your requested items," he said. Christine pulled away, getting the hint that he might be a little uncomfortable by her proximity, and so she went to the kitchen, knowing that he was following her. He set the box down on the counter, and Christine pulled out the eggs and cream. She smiled at him.

"Thanks for this," she said. "Now I can finally finish!"

She took the cream and began to make her sauce again, but this time she noticed that Erik continued to watch her.

"You're still upset," Erik then said, somewhat slowly. "What has Khan told you?"

Christine glanced at him, quickly feeling a little unsure. "Nothing," she said unconvincingly.

"You should not lie to me," Erik said, his voice taking on a darker, more menacing tone that made her want to shudder.

Christine stared at the pot for a few long, silent moments, stirring slowly, methodically, and without really thinking about what she was doing. She finally looked back at him.

"Mr. Khan told me that…you did drugs," she said, her voice nearly a whisper.

His bottom lip tightened instantly, his chin clenched in displeasure. "Yes," he said. "It was many, many years ago. I was young…foolish…reckless."

"But you don't anymore, right?" she asked, needing confirmation yet again. "You haven't—I mean…not anymore? Not for a long time?"

"Of course not," he said sharply. "I am much smarter than I was twenty years ago."

Christine finished up her sauce, feeling relieved. Erik had stopped doing bad things. The things that had scared her most were now done, and Erik was on his way to becoming a better man…Right?

After dinner, Christine went back to the front room and sat down on the leather sofa, deep in thought. Erik loved her, and he had stopped doing all those things. Stopped killing people for her. She knew that she cared about him as well—she had just yelled at Mr. Khan for saying things about her masked teacher, but…Erik had done so many bad things in his life. If he had been any other man, he probably would have been locked in jail until he died. Was it crazy of her to care about him? Was she out of her mind?

Erik's long legs suddenly appeared, and he sat down across from her.

"I have been thinking about how much you enjoyed my trick," Erik said. "In the practice room, with the card…"

"Oh, yeah," she said, remembering. "That was really neat."

"Perhaps you wish to see more," he suggested, sounding a little anxious. "I have a great deal of them, and most are much more impressive."

"Oh—yeah!" she said again. "Yeah! I'd love to see!"

His eyes glowed brightly, and he pulled out a deck of cards and did amazing tricks that left her baffled.

"How did you do that?" she once asked, as he had just had her pull the card out from underneath the sofa. She handed it back over to him. "I mean, really! That was amazing! How did you do it?"

"Magic," he said simply, though there was a soft, teasing tone to his voice that she enjoyed.

While he was shuffling his cards across his long hands, Christine watched him with a small smile. Like this, she knew. She knew what could happen.

Carefully, she took a deep breath and said, "I want you to be a good man, Erik."

His fingers paused, and the cards came to a standstill. His yellow eyes swept up to hers, and there was instant tension in his jaw.

"I know you can be one," she pressed. "You've done…so much for me. So many good things. Mr. Khan told me things about you that scared me, but you're different now. I know you are."

There was a long moment of silence, and then he went back to shuffling, his head bent low, his hair falling over his ears.

"Perhaps I am not," he said, his voice soft. The cards leapt back and forth between his hands. "Perhaps I am the same man I have always been."

"No. I don't believe that. A bad man wouldn't have done what you've done for me."

To her shock, the couch behind her started talking. "_Maybe that is because of your incandescent charms, my dear!"_

Christine had swiveled around in her seat, staring at the couch. She glanced back to Erik suspiciously, but he was still shuffling, and his mouth was in a straight line, not having moved.

"Erik?" she said questioningly.

"_Yes,_" said the end table by the couch. "_You are the exception to our rules. You are an exception in itself."_

"How are you doing that?" she asked again, scooting over to examine the table. "I mean…how? That's amazing! I actually thought they were talking to me!"

She looked back and, to her further surprise, Erik seemed to smile a little. "They _are_ talking to you, my Christine."

She laughed. "Fine. Be that way and keep your secrets. But…" She slid back over across from him. "I mean what I said. I really do. I really don't believe that you're the same man you were those years ago. You just need to believe that, too." With great care and deliberate slowness, Christine reached over and gently grasped his hand. The cards quickly tumbled to the floor. "I don't know why you did the things you have, but you don't have to do them anymore. You can change. I—I know you can, Erik." She squeezed his fingers softly, her ring glinting softly in the light. "I believe in you."


	34. Chapter 34

In the darkness, Christine sat up quickly, her eyes snapping open. She inhaled a small gasp.

"Ghost," she said suddenly. Clumsily, she reached over to the nightstand and touched the cool vase, feeling her way up to the bouquet of flowers. Erik had given them to her not three hours ago. She had taken them with a very heated blush and a wide grin.

"Thank you," she had said, trying not to giggle or jump up and down in excitement. "What are these for?"

"Women enjoy flowers, do they not?" he had said as a noncommittal response. She had put them on the nightstand by Erik's large bed later that night, shoving his scary sculpture under the bed once again, as she had done every night since her arrival. The sweet scent of the flowers had wafted around the room, and Christine ran a finger over the soft petals. The flowers were red.

Pushing the sheets off of her, she clumsily climbed out of the bed, tripping a little as her foot got caught in the bedspread, but she recovered and made her way over to the light switch, flipping it on and pulling on a dressing gown to cover her nightgown. She liked the nightgowns, she decided. They made her feel…girly. And she hadn't felt like that very often, usually too stressed or worried to give thought to that kind of thing.

Christine ensured one last time that the sash was tied before pulling open the door and stepping out into the room, looking for Erik. The front room was empty and so was the kitchen. Guessing that he had gone out for a while, Christine huffed in frustration and plopped down heavily onto the sofa, staring at his large armchair. She had put together the pieces at last. It had taken her awhile, but it came, eventually, as it always did. Christine pushed her fingers into her eyes, giving an angry grunt. Sometimes she felt so stupid. The answer was always right there in front of her, but she never seemed to be able to figure it out until it was too late. She had never thought of herself as dull before. She had done well in high school, even going so far as to take a couple advanced literature and history classes. She had never failed a class. Christine chewed on a fingernail absentmindedly. Maybe she just lacked common sense.

With a little snort of amusement, she shook her head. It was apparently so, as she was still here, comfortably living with a murderer and ex-drug-addict and…who knew what else. But Erik had somehow seemed touched by her proclamation of faith in him the other night. He had genuinely seemed touched. She knew he was not a bad man through and through. He just needed a little…guidance, maybe. As far as she knew, he hadn't ever really had someone like that—a girlfriend (she giggled a little at the thought) or even a _friend_. Mr. Khan had said that Erik didn't think like that, that he had no loyalties to anyone but himself and that he was a selfish, cruel, unstable man. But Christine felt, deep in her stomach, that maybe if she just tried to nudge him in the right direction…maybe he could be the man she needed him to be. He was already doing such a good job caring for her. A bad man wouldn't get her eggs and cream at a moment's notice. A bad man wouldn't give up his bedroom and bathroom for her. A bad man wouldn't buy her a whole new wardrobe and other necessities. So…Erik _wasn't_…a bad man. He was just a little misguided and confused. Maybe. Hopefully.

As she sat there, thinking, she suddenly heard a small, muffled noise, and she looked over, putting a hand over her heart to try to still it. There were never any noises in the house except when made by her or Erik. So that meant that Erik was in the house or…someone else. Christine scowled. If it was Mr. Khan again, she made a vow to turn him out right away. She didn't need him slandering Erik even more. She was having a tough enough time getting past everything _else_.

Carefully, she crept over to the source of the noise. It was coming from near the piano, and she looked around curiously before spotting the mysterious door that never seemed to open. She tiptoed over and pressed her ear against it. Was Mr. Khan snooping around in there? How did he get in?

But…no. After a moment, she realized that it was Erik—talking. His voice was too soft and muffled by the door for her to make out any long sentences, but she heard snippets and random words.

"…_you can_…_our_…_Perhaps_…_should_…_out_…"

Christine strained to hear more. She couldn't hear anyone else, and by the way Erik would pause for a period of time gave her the impression that he was talking to someone on the phone. She wondered who and why. But given the fact that she was probably hearing every fifth or sixth word Erik said, she knew that she wouldn't find out. With a silent sigh, she went back to the bedroom, knowing she would have to wait until the next day.

The next morning, she ventured out into the front room to find Erik on his laptop again, a few of his fingers pressed into his hairline, giving him a look of concentration.

"I know your secret," she said in a sing-song voice, sitting down across from him. He glanced up at her, and she was shocked to see that he appeared a little haggard. His eyes were tired, and his mouth was pulling downward.

"Hey—are you okay?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, I am fine. '_Okay_.' I am."

"All right," she said. "You just look a little beat. Sorry."

Erik shut the laptop suddenly and set it off to the side, leaning forward a little and pressing his fingertips to his hairline once again.

"What is my secret?" he then said.

"Oh, yeah," she said, quickly remembering why she was there. "I know it! Okay, on the opening night of Figaro, someone had left flowers for me in the dressing room. I didn't know who they were from, but a girl said they were from the _Ghost_." Christine couldn't help but grin a little. "You're the Ghost, aren't you?"

Erik chuckled a little, and he looked back up at her, smoothing his hair down. "I seem to have a wide array of names and identities, do I not?"

Christine laughed. "I think that I like Erik best, though."

He paused and tilted his head ever-so-slightly, looking at her a little curiously. "Yes," he said softly. "Perhaps Erik is best for you…most suited to you."

"Heh." She gave an awkward half-laugh, and then she said, "So what does your Ghost job entail?"

He spread his hands out in front of him. "A variety of things," he said. "I usually make small adjustments to the orchestrations…something hardly anyone notices, but it is infinitely beneficial to the overall production. Occasionally I will modify set arrangements or costumes if need be. It is an all-inclusive position, one that only benefits the Opera House."

Christine hesitated, unsure if she wanted to say it, but then she said it anyway: "That girl told me that someone had been _killed _by the Ghost…"

"I merely gave him a very good fright," Erik said, sounding _casual _about the fact that he had killed someone else. "Apparently he already had a heart condition, and he was so frightened by my silly tricks that he suffered a heart attack later that night."

"Oh, wow," Christine said quietly. "That's…awful. That poor guy."

"Why would you say that?" Erik said. "You did not know him. Perhaps he was a criminal." He didn't sound upset or angry—he sounded genuinely interested in her answer.

"I'm not happy that someone died, Erik," she said. "It's awful when people die."

"Some people are an anathema. Some people deserve to die."

She gaped for a moment. "No one deserves that," she then said. "And…and even if they do, I don't think that it should be decided by another person. I try not to judge someone because they do bad things. I do bad things, too."

Erik laughed outright. "You, my dear, most certainly do _not_."

"I do," she insisted. "So are you—going to kill me too or something? Do I deserve to die?"

His humor vanished instantly, and he sprang up from his seat. "_Why _would you say something like that?" he snarled. "You will never speak like that again. How dare you even _think _that…" He forced himself to trail off, and he sucked in a deep breath, his thin chest expanding. "You are safer here than anywhere else," he then said. "Do not ever doubt that."

"I don't," she said, hurriedly and quietly. "I don't, Erik. I was just…never mind. Never mind what I said."

There was a long silence, and Erik watched her, as if studying and analyzing her. It made her feel uncomfortable and squirmy, and she looked around the room, anywhere but at him.

After a while, Erik leaned back and said, "Perhaps you would enjoy another drive this evening."

She quickly perked up at that suggestion. "Yes," she said hurriedly. "Yeah, I would love that."

The next few hours consisted of another voice lesson, and Christine felt herself relax slightly as she sang. There seemed to be no problems in the music—the music was always there for her, to comfort and to care. Maybe Erik felt that, too.

They walked up to the surface in silence, Christine clutching his cuff like she did last time. She kept close to him, wondering how he could see where he was going. She thought that maybe it wasn't that he could see, but that he knew the way so well that he didn't need any light. Still…it was a little scary to be walking around, completely blind. It was always so dim in his house. She had never thought she would miss sunlight coming in through the windows as much as she did.

It was dusk when they finally emerged, and Christine inhaled deeply, letting the sweet summer air fill her up. It was a very warm night, and she looked around, letting herself smile as she saw the orange glow of the city streets as they soaked up the last bit of the fading sun. Streetlamps were beginning to flicker on, and the deep shadows cast by the buildings created a dramatic and impressive visual.

Erik ushered her into the awaiting car, glancing around suspiciously, and Christine slid in without comment, though she felt disappointment. She wondered if maybe in a few days they could actually walk around instead of sequester themselves in a dark car. Her body felt the need for some type of refreshing exercise. She had spent the majority of her summer indoors, and she wanted to go out and enjoy the sunshine and warm air.

Christine looked out into the streets. They passed by a huge park, and Christine could see a mother and father with two children. The father was carrying a small girl on his shoulders, and the mother was holding the other little girl's hand. For a brief moment, Christine wondered what it would have been like if her parents had had any other children. Things would have turned out so differently.

"What is it that occupies your thoughts?" Erik asked quietly, and Christine turned to find him watching her, his eyes glowing. She smiled weakly.

"My dad," she said honestly. "I miss him still. A lot."

"Yes. There has not been enough time for the pain to pass." She noticed his hand carefully sliding over the seat, as if he was hoping she wouldn't see. His thin fingers lightly touched the edges of hers. He made no comment, nor did she. Did he want her to ignore it, pretend like it wasn't happening? Did he want her to smile and signal that it was okay? Did he want her to turn her hand over for further invitation? And…was she okay with it, really? He wasn't touching much. It was like he was afraid of fully holding her hand and contented himself with a careful touch of her fingers.

He continued, "You have learned to stand without him, and soon the grief will lessen."

They watched each other for a moment. The cool air conditioning was blowing the hair around her face, and a small stray curl blew over and tickled her nose. She reached up to brush it away, and she saw that Erik's fingers curled slightly, as if he was hurt and thought she had pulled away. Quickly, she tucked her curl behind her ear and then put her fingers carefully over his without another thought. His eyes swept up to hers again. It was a silent moment.

"Have you ever…lost anyone?" she asked.

Erik looked down at her hand, and his eyes were lost in the shadows for a moment. She took the opportunity of his distraction to study his mask quickly. She still hadn't plucked up enough courage to ask him about it again.

"Once," he said, continuing to watch her hand. "A very long time ago."

"Can I ask who it was?" she said. She could feel the thinness of his hand through the glove.

To her astonishment, it looked like the question flustered him. He suddenly pulled his hand away and pushed them down into his lap.

"It was…" he said, looking out of the window. "It was the female…the woman…who gave birth to me."

She frowned in confusion. "Your mother?"

"No! Yes—no. No." He glanced over at her quickly. "No. She was not my…_mother_. She was simply the woman who carried me for nine months and then…delivered me."

Christine was more confused than ever. "Like…a birth mother? Were you raised by someone other than your biological mother? Because that's okay, Erik." She reached over to try to comfort him with a touch, and he flinched. She pulled her hand back to herself quickly.

"No!" he said again, and he stretched his hand out but paused, as if uncertain of where to put it on her. His hand hung in the air between them, a silent invitation and a silent plea. He was waiting for her to respond—she knew he wouldn't go any further without her consent. Knowing it would be too cruel to let his request go ignored, she carefully put her up as well, and their fingertips touched. They sat there for a few more silent moments. She was trying to control her breathing and emotions. So much had happened so quickly.

"The woman…who gave birth to me was not my mother," Erik said at last. "I was housed, clothed, and fed by her, but she was not my mother. I had no mother."

Christine didn't understand at all what he was saying, but she could sense that maybe now wasn't the right time to press him for details or clarifying facts.

"I'm really sorry, Erik," she murmured, scooting closer to him. "That's sad. Moms are wonderful. My mom was."

The car continued to drive, and Christine glanced at Erik a few times before slowly, carefully, and deliberately turning her hand and sliding her fingers between his. She could feel him tense instantly, but he did not pull or push her away. He merely sat there, staring out of the window.

"Is this okay?" she asked, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

"Fine," he said, his voice sounding a little strangled. "Fine. It's fine."

For a long time, they rode in silence, both of them looking out the window. After a while, Christine noticed that they were making circles around the same three or four blocks, and she got the impression that Erik was reluctant to instruct the driver to go back to the Opera House. The thought made her blush a little with pleasure. She and Erik hadn't had much physical contact, but the way he always reacted made her wonder what kind of experience he had with this sort of affection. She had been very tactile with Raoul, and he had never expressed annoyance at her touches.

But Erik was…Erik. He was a new realm, an entirely new world to her, and she would have to go very slow and learn by experience and caution. She didn't want to pressure him or make him uncomfortable. He wasn't a man to be pushed too far, and although she knew that he wouldn't hurt her, she didn't want to create unnecessary contention.

Still, holding her hand was probably a very, _very _big leap for Erik, and she was pleased. Lightly, she stroked the back of his thin glove with her thumb, and his hand jerked slightly, but he did not pull away.

It was very dark now, and she could sense that it was late in the evening. Her eyes were beginning to become heavy, and she watched the buildings roll by the window with blurry, tired vision. Erik hadn't said anything since his insistent assurance that she was 'fine,' merely staring silently out of the window as well.

However, after she couldn't muffle a long yawn, he looked back to her.

"You are tired. I have kept you out too long."

"No, it's fine," she said sleepily, feeling pleasantly-drowsy in the cool car. "I'm good."

"We will have many more evenings like this," he said, and it almost sounded like he was insisting on it.

"Okay," she muttered, feeling too dull and sleep addled to say anything else.

He instructed the driver to take them back to the Opera House, and Christine blinked slowly at the passing street lights and darkened windows of the various shops and buildings. When they got closer to the Opera House, Erik said quietly,

"Perhaps when the damage is fully repaired you would not object to…visiting Erik…often. You will come for lessons…and I will show you more magic."

"That sounds nice," she said, smiling at the thought.

"Yes. That way—that way you will not be distracted. You will not forget your poor Erik."

She couldn't help but giggle a little. "What are you talking about?"

"When you make your debut, you will be adored by the world. Other _me__n _will see your divine talent and will try to take you from me, and I will be alone, without my Christine to sing for me."

They stopped outside the Opera House at last, and Christine laughed again, some of her sleepiness adding to her amusement. "Erik, you're silly sometimes, you know that? Of course I'd never forget about you! You got me where I am today. I'm not going to just run off with some hot guy."

In the dim lights of the Opera House, she could see him clenching his chin grimly.

"We should hope not," he said, and he opened the door that led down to his underground home.

Once there, Christine spent a moment rubbing at her eyes, adjusting to the sudden and abrupt change in lighting. Erik's lights were very bright to compensate for the fact that there was no sunlight.

She looked over at Erik sitting at the piano, feeling a warm sensation of pleasant nerves fill her stomach. The car ride tonight had been revealing and tender. She knew that she cared about him. A lot. She felt as if they had reached a level of more understanding than before, even though parts of him were still a huge, unsolved mystery.

Her stomach suddenly clenched up at the thought, and she stared at him, all traces of sleepiness instantly gone. Now that they were so close…the mask needed to come off. Christine examined it carefully. No matter what was under there, she knew it would still be the man she had come to care about without seeing his face. This would be another building block of their fragile trust. Even if he hid scars, she wanted to see now more than ever. The timing felt perfect. Their emotions were exposed and raw, and their delicate bond seemed ready for a test. He would be angry, of course, but once he saw that she didn't care what he hid, he would come to know that she was ready for another step. Erik might be too unsure to do so himself, unsure if she was prepared, but…she was.

She approached him, trying not to betray herself. Her hands were shaking slightly, and so she clasped them together. Christine kept her eyes on him, careful to note the ties of his mask beneath his black hair. If she just pulled up…it shouldn't be too hard. Hopefully it wouldn't catch on his nose. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him by taking it off.

When she was by him, she hesitated. Erik had warned her about touching his mask. But…that had been months ago, when they weren't close, when they didn't have this special connection. Christine didn't want to spend any more time with him looking at a mask. Their relationship deserved a real face. She felt that they were at this point. This was now necessary, and Erik would have to realize that if he wanted her to continue visiting him—if he wanted them to become closer.

He turned to look at her as she stepped into the small alcove, and she smiled at him.

"Is there something you require?" he asked. "I was under the impression that you were tired."

"Just coming to say goodnight," she invented stupidly. "I had…a really nice time tonight. Thank you."

"Yes. Yes, you enjoyed yourself in my company. And you touched me."

"I did," she agreed. "You said it was okay."

"I said that," he said, looking back to his music. "No one touches me…but you did."

"Can I touch you again?" she asked. "I just want maybe like a half-hug goodnight. You don't have to stand up."

He was silent for a moment, and then he nodded.

She stepped closer to him and carefully leaned over to give him an awkward, clumsy, horribly-uncomfortable hug. He didn't raise his arms to hug her back, but she was fine with that. She could hear him exhale softly, and she took a deep breath.

When she drew back, her hands came up to catch the sides of his mask, and she gave one almighty yank upward. It slid off jerkily and was surprisingly-light. She heard him gasp in what sounded like pain—the mask must have clipped him while she pulled it off. Christine held it tightly and looked.

He tried to cover it with his hands, but it was too late.

She saw.


	35. Chapter 35

When she woke, she blinked at the ceiling groggily, half-conscious and trying to remember where she was and why she was on the floor. Then she smelled something metallic, and she could feel dry blood on her face, hands, streaks down her neck, and she screamed in horror and rubbed her face with her grimy fingers, the blood flaking off. Not even looking for Erik—not even wanting to know where he was or what he was doing—she scrambled to her feet and stumbled to his bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. She fell to her knees and vomited into the toilet again and again. The smell of the blood was making her stomach twist, and she couldn't escape it. It was all over her.

Her stomach still uneasy, she crawled over to the shower and managed to turn the handle. Hot water immediately rained down on her, and she sat there, not even bothering to pull off her now-soaked clothing. She turned her face upward and let the water wash away the dried, flaky blood. What had she ever done to deserve this?

Christine put her face in her wet knees. She knew—she had made a deal with the devil. That's what she had done. God was at last punishing her for agreeing to let Erik teach her to sing. She had promised her soul to the most evil man alive. Now she was paying the price. She was completely alone. There was no _Pappa _to help her…no Raoul to rescue her…No one knew she was down here except Erik and Mr. Khan—and she had always insisted to Mr. Khan that she was fine down here. He thought she was going to stay here!

No, that couldn't happen. She had to get away immediately. She couldn't stay down here anymore, not when Erik looked…like _that_.

Everything was still so fresh in her mind. She had shrieked at the sight, unable to help it, and he had yelled at her—"_Shut up—shut up, you—you—!"_ And then he had grabbed her and thrown her to the ground, pinning her between his knees, his awful face too close and his shapeless lips twisted into an insane leer.

Feeling bile rise in her throat again, she crawled out of the shower and over to the toilet once again, choking out acids and spit.

Her stomach ached, and she doubled over for several long moments, resisting the urge to groan with pain. It might alert Erik…and he was the last person she wanted to see.

_Did you think I was handsome under the mask? What did you expect to find, my _dear_? No—NO. Don't turn away from me. This is it! This is what it is! And it is real!_

She returned to the hot, somewhat-calming shower, this time peeling off her wet clothes as well as her ring, which had flecks of blood on it. There were still some streaks of dried blood on her, and she lathered the lavender soap all over her skin, the scent familiar.

None of it was her own blood. Every drop of it was Erik's, and every drop came from his face. She scrubbed at it until her skin was pink and raw, and then she scrubbed some more. It all needed to come off, all of it!

He had taken her hands in his own and had then clawed at his face with her fingernails. The thin, brittle skin had torn instantly, and blood had begun to ooze down, thick and warm. It had dripped from his face onto hers, and then he had smeared it around, all over her forehead and cheeks—some of it onto her lips…

Her throat was raw from screaming. She had been an incoherent, hysterical mess: pleading and shrieking and wailing, begging him to get away from her. Her right arm and shoulder hurt a little bit as well, as she had tried to bolt as soon as she had seen, but he had been too fast, and he had grabbed her wrist and had pulled her back to him. She rubbed her shoulder a little, wincing.

It was all made so much worse by the fact that she had actually cared for him. He had been so good to her when she had been brought down here. He had seemed _anxious _to please her, to make her stay here as comfortable as he could. She had enjoyed his company and his strange conversations. And the _music _had been ethereal. Could an evil man truly write such angelic music? How was that possible?

Christine pressed her fingertips into her eyes, feeling exhausted and shaky. With a fierce aching, she wished that Gustave was there with her. He would help her, protect her, tell her what to do…Even in his lies, he had done his best to protect her. Throughout all of the things he had done, he had always done them in hopes that they would be for _her _good.

She washed her hair, knowing that some blood was probably dried in her curls as well. There had been so much blood—all of it, everywhere, dripping from his face to hers…She felt her gag reflex simulate, and she heaved for a few moments. Taking deep, calming breaths, she closed her eyes tightly. Erik was probably hurt by his self-inflicted cuts. And she was locked in his bathroom, making him unable to get to his medicine cabinet. For a split-second, she thought that she should leave so he could get into his supplies, but then the thought vanished. For however much she was worried about Erik, she was terrified of him ten times that amount. The anger in his eyes…

_You have made your corpse bleed for you. It is for _you_, Christine. I doubt your boy would do this. I would do anything for you—_anything. _Don't you know that?_

After she had thoroughly scrubbed every inch of herself, she turned off the shower and wrapped one of the towels around her, shivering on the floor and staring at the doorknob, praying that it didn't twist. What if it did, and he came in here…without his mask…and saw her completely soaked on the floor in a towel?

Christine shuddered and again put her face in her knees, sniffling a little. She felt incredibly sick and very shaky, and she breathed deeply once more, leaning against the wall for support. The steam from the bathroom cleared after a while, and she was freezing. Her clothes were still soaked, however, and so she grabbed all the provided towels and wrapped them around herself, curling up on the rug for warmth. She felt pathetic and horrible.

She didn't know how long she lay there, trembling and blankly staring at the cabinets. She kept trying to keep her mind off of Erik, as if she could trick her brain into thinking of something that wasn't dominating her thoughts. But Erik's face continued to creep back up—that grotesque, yellowish-grayish brittle skin, the flaming eyes, the hole in his face where the nose should have been…She pressed a towel over her face, screaming loudly into it and feeling her throat throb in protest. His face was something out of a crazy man's nightmares. She would have never imagined something like that. She had thought…perhaps a burn or bad scars…but never anything like that. How could he be alive and look like that?

Eventually, she closed her eyes and fell into a fitful doze, exhausted by all the emotions that had run through her body in the last few hours. She never fell asleep fully, always jerking herself awake with the thought that she _would _fall asleep and Erik could walk in and see her asleep and naked on his bathroom floor. That would…not be ideal.

Her clothes were still too wet and cold to pull back on, and so she had to make do with the towels, covering herself as best she could for modesty as well as for warmth.

She continued to doze on and off, unsure of how much time had passed. However, it wasn't long before the pains in her stomach began. Christine attributed it to the violent retching she had done, and the pains began to grow sharper and longer. She tried to soothe her empty, hurting stomach with water from the sink, but it only seemed to make it hurt more.

Wondering if she was going to end up vomiting out her entire stomach, she curled up on the floor, clutching at her midsection and trying not to groan or whine. Erik might hear her…and he might want to know what was happening…and her clothes were still not dry enough to put on. Their drying was not helped by the fact that she was in a bathroom with no windows or anything else to air them out.

The pain in her stomach increased to an unbearable level, and she couldn't hold back a long whine, tears springing to her eyes. Just the thought of eating something made her sick, but she knew that she had to eat to soothe the empty churning in her stomach. And the thought of Erik's face did nothing to help her sickness.

His _face_. Why had she wanted to see it? Why had she convinced herself that she would accept it—whatever it turned out to be? She hadn't been prepared for that. There was no way she could have ever been prepared for that sight, not even if Erik had described it in detail. Just the thought of those glowing eyes fixated in that skeletal, twisted face…She shuddered and rubbed at her eyes, as if she could grind the image out of her brain.

With a heavy ache, she thought of Raoul. If he knew what had happened to her, he would probably run down here and—and grab her and take her back to his apartment. Then they would be safe. His big, modern apartment suddenly seemed like heaven at this moment. No one had ever screamed at her there. No one had ever smeared blood all over her face. The most that had happened were silly disagreements between her and Raoul. Christine swallowed an oncoming sob. Who cared if Raoul didn't support her singing? He supported her in everything else! He was virtually perfect, and she had given him up. Why was she so stupid? If she had gone with Raoul, maybe they would be…planning their wedding. Instead she was lying naked on the floor of a deformed murderer's bathroom. And she was afraid that he would kill her when she left. Because she had to leave, eventually.

Her stomach was still twisting, and she was in tears because of the pain. Her hair was dry, and her skin had settled on a numb chill, goose bumps prickling up and down her arms and legs. She glanced over at her damp clothes. Even if they were dry, she wouldn't want to put them back on. They were stained badly. With a heavy moan, she sat up and stared at the door, carefully holding a towel around herself. Maybe if she was lucky, Erik wouldn't be in the house. She wasn't sure how long she had been cooped up in the bathroom, but…maybe he was out doing something, and she could sneak into the kitchen for food without having to confront him.

Feeling her aching limbs protest, she half-crawled, half-scooted over to the door, reached up for the knob, unlocked it, and twisted it carefully, listening intently for any other sounds. The door opened soundlessly, and she peeked out of the crack. As far as she could tell, the bedroom was empty. There were no noises—no piano music or anything else that would indicate that Erik was in the house.

Christine pulled the door open wider and stuck her head out, hardly daring to breathe. The light from the bathroom spilled into the dark bedroom, illuminating the wide, empty, neatly-made bed. Using the knob for support, she pulled herself to her feet and then took a few shaky steps into the bedroom.

Locating some fresh, dry, clean clothes, she hurriedly pulled on the first things her hands could grab, and she nearly sighed in relief after she was finally fully clothed. Then came the daunting prospect of leaving the bedroom, and she took several deep breaths, trying to think of what she would say if she saw Erik.

She couldn't think of anything. There hardly seemed to be anything _to _say. _Hi, Erik. Remember the last time we were together, and your mask was off, and you were putting your blood all over me? Yeah._

Maybe she wouldn't say anything. She could just walk past him for the kitchen. But what would his reaction be? What if he grabbed her and started screaming at her again? Christine could envision kicking him in the shins and bolting back to the bathroom, but she knew that she probably wouldn't be able to. She'd just start crying again.

Her stomach gave another nasty, painful tug, and she pressed an arm over it and grimaced in what she hoped was determination. With a shaking, hesitant hand, she pulled open the bedroom door.

There was dim light in the front room, coming from one of the standing lamps in the corner. Her eyes instantly went over to the piano. No one was there. She sighed in relief and tiptoed to the kitchen, trying to control her frantic heartbeat. If she was lucky, she could grab some food and sneak back to the bathroom. Maybe that was how it would be for forever—sneaking back and forth for food. She never wanted to see Erik again.

As she was piling whatever food she could find into her arms, she heard a creak, and she turned to the doorway to see him standing in it. They stared at each other for a moment, Erik holding his shirt up over his right shoulder. His mask was back on. His dark black hair was rumpled and untidy, and his hands were bare. However, the more she looked, the more uncomfortable she became. He was wearing nothing but his pants and his white shirt, and the shirt had been undone by one or two buttons. She could see an extremely bony collarbone and the top of an emaciated, discolored chest.

There were dark, brownish stains on the collar of his shirt, and she looked closer and realized that he had streaks of dried blood down his jaw and neck, trails coming from beneath his mask. He apparently hadn't washed since…it had happened.

The food then toppled out of her arms, and she immediately dropped to the ground, grabbing everything quickly, intent on walking past him and back to her safe haven. When she had everything, she straightened up, only to find that Erik had moved closer. She took an automatic step back when his hand reached out. And when it carefully encircled her arm, she jerked away.

"No," she said immediately, her voice quivering. "Please…no. Don't—don't touch me. Please."

Intense pain crossed his eyes, and she almost felt bad for making him feel that way. Almost, but not quite. It wasn't hard when she saw the blood on his neck, a reminder of what he had done to her.

"Put that down," he said, his voice raspy and hoarse. It sounded so different from his usual elegant voice that it almost frightened her. "I will—I will feed you."

"I don't think…" she began, but she trailed off. There was a long moment in which they simply looked at each other, and then she reluctantly put the miscellaneous food stuffs on the counter, carefully skirting around him and going to the dining room. She was actually feeling shaky from being on her feet for so many minutes. Her lack of food was making her feel dizzy and sweaty.

After a couple of minutes of complete silence, Erik came to her and set down a plate in front of her. He then stood off to the side, and she wasted no more time, quickly tucking into her meal. The food tasted fine, and although it was painful to swallow and settle, she knew that this was the way to make the pain in her stomach go away. As she ate, she tried not to pay any attention to Erik, who was still standing, watching her silently. He oftentimes shifted his weight from foot to foot, his glowing eyes never leaving her. When at last she was finished, she sat in silence and counted slowly in her head. She got to twenty seconds before she began to feel panicked, and she glanced at him and softly said, trying to break the stiff silence, "Is your…I mean…my nails. And the blood on your—the cuts. Are you okay?"

"I am fine," he said stiffly. "Facial wounds bleed severely."

"That's good," she whispered at the plate. "There was a lot of blood…I was worried."

All of her emotions were bubbling up, and coupled with her exhaustion from her time spent crying and vomiting in the bathroom, it was almost too much to handle. She felt as if everything she had worked for was crumbling, and it was all her fault. Her relationship with Erik was broken, and her fragile happiness while being here with him was gone. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she began to sniffle and wipe at them, feeling angry as well. She didn't want to cry. That was the last thing she wanted to do—cry some more, but the tears continued to come, and she stared at her lap and wiped them away with shaking fingers. She just wanted to go home and forget about this whole mess. She didn't want to have to deal with it anymore. She wanted Gustave. She wanted her _Pappa_. He would have wrapped her up in his secure, loving arms and told her that everything would be all right. He would have played for her until she fell asleep, or pulled on her hair and read her stories, or held her hand tightly and kissed her forehead. She just wanted _someone _to turn to.

"No—no." She heard Erik's voice, and it sounded somewhat frantic. "You will not cry. Not anymore. You will not see my face again. You will forget Erik's face." He awkwardly pushed his handkerchief into her hands. "It will be forever covered by the mask. In time…you could see the mask as my face. It is a much better thing to look at, is it not? And you will not see my face. We would be perfectly happy down here, you and I, together. Now that you know, you'll not remove it again. Everything will be perfect."

He was sounding absolutely insane. Christine took some deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. Crying wasn't helping her in the least bit, and it was only further agitating Erik, who was clearly already pushed to the limit. Christine couldn't help but continue to remember the things Mr. Khan had told her about him. They were painful.

"You still cry," Erik continued. "You are afraid of me! But I'm not an evil man. You said so yourself. You said that I am a good man. I will be good to you, Christine. Everything you want will be yours. We'll be perfectly normal, just as you wish."

Christine sniffled a little and then said tremulously, "Erik…maybe it's best if I go home."

She knew it had been the wrong thing to say as soon as it came out of her mouth. Erik's eyes flashed, and he towered over her at his full, daunting height.

"You want to escape the monster!" he hissed. "You wish to leave me forever!"

"I told you I would come back!" she argued timidly. "I promised to visit you!"

"Do you think I can be taken in by such lies?" he said. "You will run—as soon as you leave me, you will run from me, and you will not return!"

"No!" she tried to protest. "I just thought that it—"

"You are not leaving this house!" he thundered. "You belong here, with the music, with _me_! You will be here forever!"

"Please," she said. She swallowed, realizing just what she was saying. "I promised to visit you. You're my teacher, Erik. I'd…I'd come back to visit you. I would."

There was a long moment of silence in which he looked at her closely. He still looked frightening and slightly crazy, with his messy hair and blood-stained skin and shirt. Christine met his gaze, still afraid but determined to make him believe her…even if she didn't believe it herself.

The moment stretched on too long, and suddenly his hand shot out and carefully twisted itself into her curls, but he didn't pull at all. Christine had flinched a little at his sudden movements, afraid that he was going to hit her.

"You want to run from me now, but you can come to see that I am not a dead man. I am alive, Christine. A man who is alive needs a woman who is alive. And you are so _very _alive…" His grip tightened, but he was still careful not to pull. "You cannot leave me. Erik would die if you left him."

Christine couldn't make herself answer him. She had already lied enough for one day.


	36. Chapter 36

It was a windy evening, and Christine stared out of the window, wanting more than anything to be outside, running and free and…away from him.

She was huddled on the complete opposite side of the car, her hands and feet drawn in close in the prevention of him putting his fingers on her. It was hard to compare this ride to the last one, in which she had willingly touched him and had even held his hand. Now they were stifled in an uncomfortable, everlasting silence, and she was scrunched up in the corner. He was glancing at her every couple minutes, but she was not going to say anything.

The trees were bent over at the top, and not many people were out. She could hear the wind wailing, the sound sneaking in through the tiny, invisible cracks in the doors. For a moment, she closed her eyes and envisioned jumping out of the car and having the wind pick her up and carry her away. But the fantasy ended, of course, and she opened her eyes, catching Erik's reflection in the window for a moment. He was watching her again. She quickly looked back to the streets and shops.

After that terrible day and his crazy proclamations that were followed quickly by his anger, he had sent her away, claiming that she was obviously exhausted and needed proper rest. She had taken his advice and had slept for hours upon end, only emerging when she was hungry. Erik had cleaned himself up and looked a little saner in his usual suit coat and slacks, but all the fancy clothes in the world couldn't erase what she saw and remembered. His face…It somehow managed to twist itself into her dreams, always cropping up and making her wake in terror.

Sometimes she sat and deliberately thought about it. She had come to the decision that if Erik hadn't reacted the way he had, then perhaps his face wouldn't have been so horrific. If he had calmly turned and let her look, perhaps she would have been able to sit and really examine it. But…no. He had forced her to cut his skin _with her own nails_, and he had then smeared his own blood on her face. If Erik was capable of such a disgusting thing in a fit of rage, then…She shuddered. He was not safe. Mr. Khan was right all along. Erik was not someone who could be helped.

And she wasn't supposed to have touched it, she knew…But Erik had invaded her privacy before many times, had broken unspoken rules about the conduct between people, and it wasn't fair that he got to do those things without repercussion and she had received the fright of her life by doing one thing to him. She was afraid to do anything else to make him upset. What if he reacted the same way?

She hadn't meant to hurt him or betray his trust—she had done it all in the hopes of them becoming closer. For the first time, she glanced at him. She had a distinct feeling that Erik would find that hard to believe, no matter how true it was.

She had resisted asking him about what he intended for her future. Christine was extremely worried that once all the repairs were finished up, she would simply be stuck underneath the Opera House with him forever. He hadn't said anything since his declaration that he would die if she left him, but she couldn't stay with him forever. She couldn't.

Erik was still focusing on her voice. Their daily music lessons were a time in which they could resume old roles, but it still wasn't the same. There was always that nagging thought in the back of her mind about what had happened between them. She would look at him and see the curved edges of his mask, unable to help herself as she replayed those awful events in her mind.

After countless minutes in silence, Erik spoke.

"You are not wearing your ring."

Christine started a little in surprise and looked down at her bare left hand. "Um…yeah. I'm not. I guess I forgot to put it back on after I showered this morning." That was a lie. She had seen it on the counter and had deliberately left it there. It looked almost threatening. That ring was a promise to Erik—a promise of herself to his music, and she couldn't keep that promise right now.

Erik paused. Then he said, "It is for you to wear. Always."

"I'll put it on when I get back," she said, and she looked back out the window.

They drove in silence for another long while. It was finally dark, and the streets were empty because of the weather. It felt like they were the only two people in the world. At that moment, Christine couldn't bear the thought.

As they were passing some buildings, she began to recognize a few of them, and she realized that the little bakery was coming up soon. Christine risked a glance at his reflection. Maybe if she asked for something else from the shop…she could go in and borrow their phone and see if Raoul was working late. Then he could come and—

No. She stopped herself before she got too far. She couldn't let Raoul get mixed up in this all. He had already had enough heartache and grief because of her. The last thing he needed was to come and be her shining knight again. This was her mess and her problem, and Raoul would probably only end up getting hurt once more if she dragged him into it. And she wasn't so sure that it would just be emotional pain this time.

Erik recognized the street as well.

"Would you like something else from that place?" he asked. "You seemed to enjoy it last time."

Christine looked over the shop for a moment, and then she shook her head. "I'm fine."

"Very well," he said after a moment of silence.

She pulled her coat in closer around her. It was very fine, the nicest one she had ever worn, and the insides were lined with the softest thing she had ever felt. All of the clothes he had given to her were extremely nice and appeared to be very expensive. There used to be a thrill in putting on the clothes; now, she only felt suffocated. It was as if he was trying to bury her in presents and gestures and promises so that she would forget what had happened.

"You're quiet," Erik then commented. "Are you feeling ill? Are you tired? Do you wish to return?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Though I'd like to go back now, if that's okay." The car ride had been stifling and awkward and uncomfortable. At least at Erik's house she could pretend to be tired and hide in his room.

When they were near to the Opera House, Erik said, "Do you hate me very much?"

The question made her turn around and look at him. His eyes were earnest. He wasn't kidding around.

"No, I don't," she said, and she surprised herself when she realized that she was being honest.

Erik looked surprised himself. "That is good," he said quietly, more to himself than to her, it appeared.

The car stopped, and he opened the door for her and led her out of the strong winds and into a small back door of the Opera House. Within a few minutes, they were back in the dark tunnels.

They continued on their way, and Christine forced herself to listen to the rhythm in his steps, the soft _tap tap tap tap _of his shoes and the rustling of their clothing. Something cold and wet suddenly landed on her cheek, and she gave a little strangled yelp of girlish fright, wiping at it hurriedly, thinking it was some slimy, gross thing that had dripped on her. Erik paused at the sound.

"It has begun to rain," he said. "There is no cause for fear."

She nodded, though she still rubbed at her face. She had begun to hate it down here, with its dark, endless tunnels and its eternal lack of sunlight. Christine looked up at him—or rather, where she thought he was.

"How long have you lived down here?" she asked.

"Many years," he said. "I have several other apartments throughout the city, but I do enjoy this one in particular. It is close to the music."

"Yeah," she murmured. "I can see why you'd like it."

They returned to his house in silence, and Erik risked a small brush of her shoulder with his fingers as she walked into the front room. She tried not to feel indignant, but it was hard to stand his touch when she thought of the last time they had touched—his fingers curled around her wrists, her hands on his awful face…

Erik beckoned her over to the piano, and she obeyed. He pulled out some sheet music and passed it over to her, and she looked at it.

"Are we going to start something new?" she asked, unable to recognize the music at all.

He nodded once. "The managers have canceled the rest of Figaro. Repairs are being finished up, and rehearsals for another production will be starting shortly. You have secured another small role."

Christine felt her stomach clench a little. Another role? She was nervous already. What if something happened again? That would definitely mean that she wasn't meant for the stage.

"What's the opera?" she asked, flipping through the music.

"It is _Elektra_, an atonal nightmare. I cringe merely thinking about Ms. Guidicelli in such a role. Still, it is popular enough, and it will draw crowds. You will be one of the serving girls."

She was quiet for a long moment, and she got the impression that Erik knew exactly what she was thinking. She tried hesitantly,

"Does this mean—?"

"Yes," he interrupted, sounding tired. "Yes, my dear. You will return aboveground for the rehearsals and performances."

Christine tried to suppress her excitement, and she nodded slowly. "Okay. That's fine."

Erik's lower lip thinned, like he was smiling facetiously. "You will return to me for further practice. You will make no attempt to escape Erik or leave this city for any reason. Do I make myself clear?"

She blanched and nodded again hurriedly. The last thing she needed was for him to become suspicious and then trap her down here forever. She wasn't sure what she was going to do once she was returned aboveground, but the important thing was that she was going to be there and not here.

They started work on the piece. There wasn't much for Christine to sing, but what there was was difficult for her. She hadn't practiced music such as this, as Erik had mostly taught her Baroque and Romantic pieces. Strauss's work was an early modern piece, and she found it hard to match her voice with the quick changes in the music and tempo. The German was also difficult for her to wrap her tongue around, and when Erik finally closed the piano, she was feeling tired and frustrated with herself.

"It will come," Erik said. "You simply need practice."

She nodded. "Yeah, I guess…I'm going to bed now, if that's okay."

Once she was tucked into the large bed, she stared out into the blackness for a while, trying to think. Was there a way out of this at all? She couldn't see one. She couldn't just leave—Erik had forbidden her to, and she knew that he would come after her if she disobeyed. Christine rubbed at her eyes. Did he really love her so much? So much that he was willing to trap her here forever? She rolled onto her back. That wasn't love at all. How could he feel that way and be all right with making her miserable?

No…she hadn't always been miserable. It had happened when she had taken off his mask. She squeezed her eyes shut as the thought of his face came back to her. That memory would probably haunt her forever. With a deep breath, she let herself think of his face. It was horrible and disgusting…but she continued to think of it. She didn't want his face to be the reason she had to leave. No, it was his reaction, his violence. This was not a safe place for her if he was willing to scream at her and frighten her out of her wits. Erik had killed people and had been a drug addict—and he had made her promise to return to him!

She took in a shuddering breath and clutched one of the pillows to her, letting a few tears creep out of her eyes. It was all made so much worse by the fact that she had begun to deeply care about him. She had held his hand. She had wanted him to trust her enough to show his face to her, but they had both destroyed any chance of that. She knew, and she couldn't pretend that she didn't.

* * *

The day finally arrived. Christine had woken early and had laid in bed for a while, grinning in the darkness. She was leaving today. Erik was leading her out of this hole and letting her go back to life above ground. Rehearsals started in only a few days, and she was feeling giddy and somewhat ecstatic. She couldn't wait to get back to the little apartment and the sunshine and the noise and the people.

When she couldn't lie in bed any longer, she rolled out of the bed and readied herself, a smile still on her lips. She chose the plainest outfit she could find, pulled her hair back, and emerged, but not before taking a moment to calm herself down. Erik would grow suspicious if he sensed that she was very eager to leave. He would probably say that she just wanted to escape him, and then he'd hold her down there forever.

As she was eating her breakfast, he entered the dining room and said, "Are you prepared?"

"Hmm?" she said, trying her best to sound nonchalant. "What? Oh. Yeah. I guess."

There was a pause, and then he chuckled darkly. "We must working on your acting sometime, my dear…" With those words, he left, leaving her to feel embarrassed, a little angered, and sheepish.

The only thing she took other than the clothes on her back was the small gold ring. She knew that Erik would be looking for it, and she made it a point to smooth her hair with her left hand so the jewelry would be very visible. His eyes softened just a little when he caught a glimpse of it. As long as she was wearing that ring, it seemed that Erik would trust her—if only a little.

The walk through the tunnels was long and silent. Christine tried not to breathe too heavily, but excitement was building up in her. The first thing she would do would be to run to the nearest park and lie down in the grass and allow the sun to bathe her. She would listen to all the sounds and appreciate everything—even the barking dogs and screaming children. Everything would sound like music after the pressing silence of Erik's house.

She could sense that they were nearer to their destination, for Erik seemed to lag and walk slower. His reluctance to release her might have been a little touching—except for the fact that he was _releasing _her from being his underground prisoner. Christine nearly shivered. It was so insane to think that. It sounded like something out of a cheap paperback novel.

However, as much as he tried, Erik could not stop the end of the tunnels from coming. Christine could see faint light from the door that led out to the back alleyway. It looked like it was bright outside.

"I'll see you at lessons," she said, trying to make this goodbye as least awkward as possible and heading toward the door. Erik somehow gently and abruptly took three of her fingers in his hand, forcing her to pause. She groaned inwardly.

"You will return to me for lessons," he said. She nodded and then said, "Yes. I told you I would."

He continued. "I would like for you to…visit me…sometimes, as you promised. Your company is a pleasant thing. You will come to my house and stay with me occasionally."

"Okay."

Something small and cool was slipped into her hand, and she felt it and realized that it was a key.

"That unlocks this door as well as my home. You will come to me when I send for you." He pulled her hand over and pushed it against the wall, and she was feeling nervous again. His long fingers held her hand and guided it over the wall to a small groove. Inside, she felt something. It was a flashlight. He clicked it on for her and held it out, and she took it carefully.

"I have drawn arrows on the walls of the tunnels, pointing you in the right direction. They are blue. You will follow the blue arrows and no other."

Christine shined the flashlight down the hall, and the beam was strong and piercing. True enough, she could see an array of colorful arrows drawn on the wall, pointing this way and that. A blue arrow pointed to the right tunnel.

"If you happen to become lost, you will not move. At all. You will sit right where you are, and you will sing—anything and everything. I will find you. Do you understand me?"

"Of course I do," she said quickly.

"It is very important that you do _not _go anywhere else in those tunnels. You will sit there and sing, and you will not move. I will always find you."

Something in his tone when he said the last sentence made her think that he wasn't just talking about her getting lost in the tunnels.

"Okay, Erik," she said. She replaced the flashlight and waited impatiently for him to open the door

There was a long moment of silence, and she could feel him watching her. She didn't know what to do, but she knew what _not _to do, and she resisted a look of eagerness and expectation that tried to work its way onto her face.

At long last, she heard a few _clicks_, and the door swung open, flooding the small room with piercing sunlight. Christine flung a hand out to shade her eyes from it. It had been a long time since she had seen such bright sunlight, and her eyes were already hurting a little.

It felt like she was passing into another dimension. She took a few steps forward and then glanced back to Erik. He was standing in a sliver of shadow, silently watching her.

"I'll come back," she said.

He paused, and then he said softly, "Yes. You will. Christine always keeps her promises."

With stumbling steps, she hurried out and into the world.


	37. Chapter 37

"No, no, no, no…"

Groans filled the room as the piano stopped one more time. Mr. Gabriel sighed and rubbed his hair in frustration—it was already standing straight on end, and although it wasn't even lunchtime, he looked exhausted.

"Ms. Guidicelli, you're still coming in a half-beat too early here. _And _one—_and _one and two and three…" he said, trying to demonstrate.

Carlotta Guidicelli flicked her dark hair in annoyance and straightened her score. "I could do this right if only I hear what is playing!" she snapped, giving a glare to the ensemble behind her, all of whom were completely silent, waiting for her to continue.

Mr. Gabriel looked at them and said dully, "Quiet down, everyone, please."

Christine was glad for the break she was having. As Carlotta would be singing most of the opera, they had gone straight to her parts the first day of rehearsal. The music was fast and not exactly pleasant to listen to, and it was setting everyone on edge. The company was eager to start, though, as a real performance hadn't been put on in months.

Upon their arrival Mr. Gabriel had greeted them all cordially and then had said in a no-nonsense sort of way: "Listen, everyone. I know that there's been lots of gossip going around, and even though there's been an official statement, I'm just going to repeat it so we don't waste our rehearsal time. The fire was caused by some faulty wiring, and it overheated during the production. While the damage was being fixed, all of the wiring was inspected or replaced, so there's no chance of that happening again. I know it was scary for everyone, but thankfully no one was hurt, and we can move on to our next production. We don't have a lot of time to rehearse, so we need to be focused and disciplined."

There had been some excited murmuring, but when the piano had started, it settled comfortably. Christine still felt a little anxious. Was it her imagination, or did Mr. Gabriel's gaze flicker toward her a bit more than usual while he was talking? Did he somehow _know _about this whole fiasco? She had no idea how he would. And Erik hadn't ever officially claimed that he had started the fire—though she was pretty sure he had.

Carlotta continued her songs, pausing often to hear Mr. Gabriel's comments. A few ensemble members were growing restless. Christine could see them shifting around in their seats, glancing toward each other and the clock. Behind her a few mezzos started gossiping in hushed voices, their conversation unable to carry to the front because of Carlotta. However, Christine heard them quite clearly.

"I heard she auditioned for a few other places during the break," one of them said. "But no one would take her."

"So she's stuck here forever," the second one replied disdainfully. "How lucky for us…"

They continued to hiss back and forth, and Christine didn't pay much more attention until the second one said, "And do you remember what happened with that nice understudy?"

"Oh yes, the Italian one. Ella or Eleanor or something."

"Well, that 'accident' sent her packing back to Venice." The way the second woman said 'accident' made Christine sure that they had looked at each other knowingly. Carefully, she tilted her head a little so she could hear their conversation better, her score spread on her lap in pretense of following along with Carlotta's ringing voice.

"Reyer was in love with that girl. He would've made her the lead if that cow's contract hadn't been in the way, and she knew it, so she had to get rid of her _somehow_. Poor girl. Everyone liked her."

"What about that new girl?" the first one questioned. "The one that sang at the gala?"

Christine felt her stomach clench. They were talking about her.

"Shh!" whispered the second one. "She's right there."

They paused, and Christine did her best to look like she had no idea what they were saying. She acted as naturally as she could, though her heart was racing. After a few long moments, the gossip started again.

"It's no secret that she has talent," the second woman began again, making her voice as low and raspy as possible, as if doing so would make it indistinguishable. "Once she's older, she'll definitely be competition, so what does that cow do? Marches right up to the managers to get that role switched."

"No way! Really?" rasped the first woman. "But they don't cast roles…"

"They have the final say," was the low reply. "So they cut her out. If she's shoved into the chorus for too long, she'll be stuck there, and that's just what that Spanish cow—"

"Ladies, _please_," Mr. Gabriel suddenly snapped at them. "Enough talking. Listen up."

Christine's mouth felt dry, and a numb sensation spread over her that she could not seem to shake off. She returned from lunch feeling exactly the same, which was difficult, as they were starting to practice the scenes with her in them. The music was already difficult, and coupled with the distracted buzzing in her mind, she found it much harder than usual. Mr. Gabriel had to pause several times to remind her of certain things or correct her, and when he had finally moved on to work with someone else, she was bright red, aware of the mutinous, doubting whispers going on all around her.

All in all, it had been a horrible first day back, made even worse by the fact that she was not allowed to leave, but had to go down the halls toward her old practice room, where Erik was waiting for her.

She shivered as she gathered up her things. It had been four days since she had seen him last. Four days of absolutely no contact. It was strange. After being continually in his company for weeks, she had grown used to him.

Making her way to the back hallways, she felt dread beginning to wash over her. Nervously, she ran a thumb over the gold band on her left hand to ensure that it was still there. He needed to see it on her, to make sure that she had been obedient.

Before disappearing around a corner, she heard someone shout her name, and she turned to see bright blonde hair approach. Meg ran toward her and then, to Christine's surprise, flung her arms around her.

"I'm so glad to see you!" Meg said, squeezing her tightly one more time and then stepping back. "I looked for you after the fire, but I couldn't find you, and then I heard that your old boyfriend was asking around and saying that he couldn't get a hold of you, and…Yeah. I was just really worried. It was like you had disappeared from the face of the earth!"

"Heh," Christine replied awkwardly, shifting her bag on her shoulder. "I'm fine. I was just visiting family for the break."

"That's nice," Meg said, smiling at last. Then she looked at Christine closely and frowned again. "You look…"

"Terrible, I know," Christine said, attempting to laugh it away. "I, um…I caught a nasty bug. I'm fine now. Not contagious or anything, but I look like a crazy person right now."

She had been more than a little shocked when she had looked into a mirror for the first time in six weeks. Her skin was drawn, pale, and dry; her eyes seemed too big for her face; her hair hung limply around her back and shoulders, and she looked thinner than ever—but not in a healthy way. A few days of walking and sunshine had helped a little, but she still looked ill.

"Okay," Meg said, easily accepting the lie because she had no reason to think otherwise. "I'm just really glad you're okay, Christine! That whole night was just a disaster for you, wasn't it?"

"Yep," she said. "But hopefully things will be okay now."

"I'm sure they will be."

They chatted together for a few more minutes, mostly discussing rehearsals and the upcoming production. After a few minutes, Meg glanced at her phone and grimaced.

"Sorry, I have to go," she said, hugging Christine tightly once more. "Mom's waiting for me. Let's catch up some more over lunch sometime soon, okay?"

Christine watched her go, and when her blonde hair had whipped around one final corner, she headed over to the small practice room, her nerves starting to build once again. For a long moment, she stood outside the door, breathing deeply. She had promised to do this, to come back for lessons.

Finally, she reached out and pushed open the door, her eyes going to the piano, behind which he stood, tall and skeletally-thin, watching her carefully.

"Hi," she said, closing the door behind her and taking a few careful steps into the room.

"You're very nearly late," he said, his voice a little chilly.

She winced a little. "Sorry. I was talking to Meg Giry."

He paused. "The ballet mistress's daughter? She is your friend, then?"

For a moment, she was dead silent, staring. What if he got mad that she had a friend? What if he went out and…hurt Meg? She couldn't possibly see a reason for him to think Meg posed any threat to him, but Erik didn't think like normal people.

He sensed her hesitation. "Don't look so alarmed. I was attempting to be a conversationalist, but perhaps I shouldn't even try. I'm dreadful at it, aren't I?"

Hurriedly, she stuttered a reply: "Oh—I…No. I don't think—"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "You needn't spare my feelings. Let's begin our warm ups."

Gratefully, she moved toward the piano. This was familiar—the music never felt awkward. They practiced for quite a while, as she hadn't made progress during rehearsals today, and she was still having a lot of trouble with the music. By the end of the lesson, she felt a bit better about it, thanks to Erik's strict, superb teaching.

As she packed up her music, she glanced toward him, wondering if she should bring it up. Tucking a few curls behind her ear, she straightened and said carefully, "Hey, Erik?"

He looked to her expectantly.

"Today at rehearsals…I heard some people talking. They said that—that Ms. Guidicelli…went to the managers about my part in _Figaro_." She felt a little embarrassed talking about this for some reason. Everything was always about _her_, and it always had been. She felt incredibly self-centered about it all. It was _her _parts and _her _singing and _her_ feelings that mattered, and Erik catered to it all.

"As I've said before, Carlotta Guidicelli is a jealous viper. She intends to discredit you as a means to remove any threat to her position. The managers were all too eager to go along with her."

"Oh," she said, trying not to show how hurt she was.

"It won't happen again," Erik said firmly. "You'll be singing in _Elektra. _You are ready, and I want you to have your debut."

"Okay." She nodded. "I'll work hard, then."

He fixed her with a stern look. "Good. I won't have my protégé being an embarrassment to the company."

* * *

Summer was still in full, the days long and warm, and Christine squinted out of the bus windows, the sun in her eyes. She was trying to ensure that she got off at the right stop. For a while, she watched a few kids riding their bikes, clearly laughing and yelling loudly, enjoying their time off of school. She smiled, remembering how much she had liked her vacation time as a child. Paris was beautiful in the summer, and she remembered strolling along the Seine with her father.

She had visited his grave every day after being released from Erik's house. It was small and in an overgrown portion of the cemetery. The gravestone was just a little rectangle, simple and inexpensive, and it saddened her to see. She wished she could have afforded something more beautiful. Still, she attempted to clean it up a bit and had put fresh flowers around the headstone.

The time there had been long and thoughtful. She had spoken to him quietly, telling him about her time with Erik and how confused she was about everything. It wasn't as if any sudden inspiration came to her, no whisperings or anything, but talking did help, and it was nice to see him, as she hadn't been to his grave in all those weeks of staying with Erik.

The sun lingered, and Christine at last descended at the right stop, anxious to get home and eat something and then relax in a bath. The apartment complex was cool, and she headed up in the elevator, her hand curled around her keys.

As the elevator _dinged _and the doors slid open, she made to exit, but then stopped short, staring.

Raoul stared back, looking equally surprised. He had been just about to enter the elevator.

"Oh," she said. "Hi."

"Oh—yeah. Hey," he said, looking a little flustered. He visibly tried to gather himself. "I can't believe you're here—you're never here when I knock."

"Do you knock a lot, then?" she asked, stepping out of the elevator so it wouldn't close on her.

"Oh—well, a few times," he said, and then she noticed he was holding something, because he held it out to her. "I went up to my mom's place a few weeks ago. My sister had her baby. And you left your dress there over Easter."

"Oh!" She hadn't even noticed, probably too upset at her breakup with Raoul to be concerned about her clothes, and as she hadn't gone to anywhere fancy since then, she had had no reason to look for it. Smiling in return, she took it from him. "Thanks a lot. And congratulations about your sister!"

"Yeah." There was a long stretch of silence. "Anyway," he said bracingly. "How...um, how are you?"

"Fine," she said. "You?"

"Good. Yep. Staying busy. Working a lot. You?"

"Same," she said, feeling that the conversation was somewhat roundabout at this point. "I'm at the Opera House most of the day."

"Are you guys going to put on a show sometime? Are you in it? Maybe I could see it one night."

"Yeah, they're putting on _Elektra _in a few weeks. You can get tickets now. I'm in it." She was feeling self-conscious and worried and a little pleased. Try as she might, she could not fight down that lingering attraction to him. He was everything she had ever wanted—safety and security and warmth and understanding. But if Erik knew that Raoul had been loitering on her doorstep at night…

"Cool," he said. "I'll look into it." She thought that that would be the end of the conversation, but instead he actually leaned in a little more, looking at her carefully. "Hey, how are you really?" he then said, his voice soft and concerned. "Are you doing okay?"

She nodded instantly. "Fine."

"I mean, I know it's already been months, but…I just worry about you sometimes, here all alone."

At that moment, Christine chose to push her hair out of her face, and Raoul caught sight of the ring on her finger. His expression dropped.

"Oh—oh," he said stutteringly. "Oh, I didn't realize…I…"

She realized what he was talking about and quickly stowed her hand behind her back. "No, it's not…" she said hurriedly. "Raoul, it's not that. It's just—it's a present. From a friend. It doesn't mean anything."

His expression cleared a little. "Oh. Yeah. I see. Well…"

"Thanks for bringing my dress," she then said, instantly horrified with herself. She had to get away from him immediately.

"No problem," he said, smiling again at her. She had forgotten how wonderful his smile was. Then he glanced at his phone to check the time. "Oh. I need to be off. I'm meeting someone at seven."

"Oh. Well. Yeah, thanks again."

"It's no big deal. And hey…" He approached and put a hand on her shoulder. "If you need anything, you know where to find me. Don't hesitate to ask, okay? Or if you just need…y'know, someone to talk to."

"Right," she said, nodding. "Thanks."

He gave her shoulder a soft squeeze and then leaned over to open the elevator once again. Christine headed back inside her apartment, feeling horrible and guilty and slightly nauseous. What was wrong with her? She was messed up. The last thing she should be doing was smiling and talking to Raoul. She knew how dangerous it was, and yet she had gone right along with his intimate manner; she had known just what she was doing, and still she let herself be pulled in.

"Enough," she said firmly to herself, heading over to draw her bath. "That's enough, Christine."

There was no way she would _ever _call him for anything. He was like an addiction—even though she knew how dangerous it was, she still seemed to succumb. With an angry, flustered sigh, she rubbed her forehead, her eyes aching.

And what was worse was that she had even gone as far as to dismiss the ring on her finger.

She looked at it, wondering quietly. What if that ring never came off? What if a wedding ring would never go there? Her thoughts drifted to rehearsal. A nice-looking baritone had smiled at her as she had packed up for lunch, and she had looked away hurriedly. If Erik wasn't controlling her, she might have had the courage to smile back, an invitation for him to approach her. Thankfully, it didn't seem like Erik had noticed any of this, and Christine wanted to keep it that way. The less people she involved in this mixed-up relationship, the better, she knew, but of course she had had to swoon over Raoul again the moment he reappeared. She knew better than that—she did. She just had to content herself with the fact that _this _was her life now, and without Erik's permission, it would never be anything else.

It wasn't long before he wanted her back with him. Just two short weeks after her release, he told her to come back down and spend the upcoming weekend in his underground house. Christine had agreed instantly, not daring to do otherwise, and he had reminded her of all the various things for the trek to his house—the flashlight and the key and the blue arrows.

That Friday, Christine left the Opera House, doubled back, and headed over to the small alleyway, pulling out the key. It unlocked the door easily, and she clumsily made her way over to the other wall and clicked on the flashlight. It had a very bright beam. Carefully, trying not to be too scared, she made her way down.

Meg had found her that morning and had invited her to spend Saturday night with her and a couple other performers. Christine had been excited for a moment before remembering.

"I'm going out of town," she had lied miserably.

"Bad luck!" Meg had said. "Next time, okay?"

And there was even more bad luck that day. Mr. Gabriel had let them out of rehearsal a couple hours early, as a reward for their hard work in the past week. Christine had already resigned herself to going below the Opera House immediately after, as Erik would undoubtedly know, and if she didn't, he'd want to know where she was and what she was doing and why didn't she come down straight away?

The walk was long and cold, and it was strange to be chilly in the middle of summer. She shivered and clutched her bag closer to her, following the blue arrows religiously, trying to block out any scuffling or rattling sounds that echoed through the stone tunnels. The thought of rats and other creepy-crawly bugs disturbed her much more now that she was without Erik as a guide. He had been insistent that she never go anywhere else in the tunnels besides those directed by the blue arrows, and she wondered briefly what could be down there. Something scary and hideous, no doubt…

Still, she kept a steady pace, and before too long she reached Erik's home. She gave a little grateful sigh and approached the front door, though she paused as she put a hand on the knob. She could hear muffled talking and then some laughter—Erik's laughter. The sound was incredibly…charming. She hadn't ever heard him laugh like that, like something had really amused him. He had always humored her feeble jokes with a soft chuckle, but she had never made him laugh like he had just done.

For several long moments, she continued to listen. Someone else was in there with him, talking to him, making him laugh, and the other person was laughing as well. She recognized the voice—Nadir Khan. That puzzled her. Why would he be here, talking to Erik, when Erik had specifically told Mr. Khan _not _to come back? When Erik had threatened to _shoot _him?

The conversation was indistinguishable. Their low male voices rumbled through, muffled by the wood and stone, and even though she strained to hear them, she couldn't make out a word. After listening for a few minutes, she started to shiver slightly from the cold, and she finally took a little breath and pushed the key in the lock, being as loud as she could to announce her presence to give them time to…prepare, or do whatever they needed to do.

His house was warm and bright, like always, and she entered, closing the door behind her and clicking off the flashing.

"Hello," she said nervously, looking between them. Erik had stood and was watching her with an unreadable expression in his eyes—almost…disbelief? Mr. Khan, too, was looking at her oddly, though he was sitting on the sofa. Two half-full glasses were sitting on the table, and a decanter of a rich amber-colored liquid was sitting next to them.

A moment of silence passed between the three of them, and then Mr. Khan looked at Erik and said swiftly, "You told me that you had—"

"I'm very aware of what I told you," Erik snapped, interrupting him.

"So what's this?" Mr. Khan demanded.

Erik looked at her again, stepping over and holding out his hand. She put the flashlight into it.

"A fulfilled promise," he said softly, but she had a feeling that the statement was directed toward her.

"Rehearsal got out early," she said, needing to explain. "I'm sorry if I interrupted anything, I can—"

"Nonsense," Erik said quickly, cutting her off. "Come along over here and sit down. Would you like something? Can I get you some tea?"

"That'd be nice," she said but then sprang to her feet again. "I'll—I'll get it myself, though, if that's okay. I don't want to trouble you."

He looked like he was going to protest—say something like 'it's no trouble at all'—but Christine was out of the room and into the kitchen before he could. She paused. It was quiet in the front room. Then she quickly made a loud show, pulling out the things required, hoping that her plan would work. As the water was heating, she crept back over near the door.

"—wasn't staying anymore!" Mr. Khan was hissing.

"She isn't," Erik said, sounding annoyed again. "I invited her back—she came back down!"

Mr. Khan made a disapproving noise in his throat. "Are you sure it was an 'invitation?'"

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Erik said haughtily. "You cannot understand her like I do."

There was a soft sigh. "Erik, you've gotten carried away with her. She's just a girl, no different than any other. She's not—not like you."

"Of course she's not," Erik said. "And I'll thank whatever gods may be for that."

They were both quiet for a moment, and Christine quickly checked the water before creeping back over to eavesdrop.

"How long is this going to go on?" Mr. Khan asked, sounding tired.

"That's not any of your concern," Erik said. "You should know better than anyone that Erik's business is his own."

There was another pause. "I'm just worried about you," Mr. Khan said. "I don't want you getting hurt."

Erik let out a derisive cackle that wasn't pleasant-sounding at all. "Don't pretend to care," he spat.

At that moment, the kettle began to shriek, and she hurried over and finished preparing the tea, but when she went back, it was silent. They were undoubtedly waiting for her to return. Feeling embarrassed by their conversation that she wasn't meant to hear, she loaded up a tea tray and carried it back out.

Mr. Khan was watching her, looking peevish. Erik was seated in his armchair, and she set the tray down by him, trying to smile. His eyes softened a little at that. Awkwardly, she fixed herself a cup and sat down by Mr. Khan. The silence stretched. She could distinctly feel the aggression emanating from Erik. The message was clear: he wanted Mr. Khan to excuse himself and leave them alone. However, Mr. Khan looked back quite stubbornly—he wasn't leaving just yet.

"So…" Christine said, shuffling her feet on the floor.

"Did you enjoy rehearsal today?" Erik asked.

"Yep," she said. "It was fine. We're starting blocking next week. Everyone's excited about that."

"And did you remember to keep on top of the accompaniment, like we discussed?"

She sighed, feeling a little frustrated. "I don't know. It's still really hard for me. I need a lot more practice before we perform."

"Of course, yes, that's natural," Erik said. "I would suggest a lesson right now, but it appears that _someone _is being an incredibly rude houseguest and isn't aware he has overstayed his welcome." He shot Nadir Khan a foul glare.

Mr. Khan, for his part, looked unperturbed by Erik's obvious hints. His cross expression hadn't lifted, but he paid no heed to Erik's words. Instead, he leaned over and grabbed his glass from the table. Christine wondered why Erik didn't simply threaten Mr. Khan to leave—he had done it before with success. But as she glanced over at him, she noticed his tight fist and his clenched jaw, and she realized that he undoubtedly wanted to do just that but was probably restraining himself for her sake.

Erik gave an irritated grunt, and Mr. Khan coughed lightly, acting oblivious to the masked man's withering glares.

"You sound incredibly ill," Erik said swiftly. "Maybe you should leave these dark, cold, dank cellars. They'll do nothing for your health."

"Then why keep Miss Daae down here?" Mr. Khan said. "If the conditions are so miserable."

"She is not an old, doddering man with a bad immune system," Erik shot back.

It was extremely awkward, sitting in the middle of them, trying to ignore the fact that they were arguing about her.

"The weather's been really nice this week," she said lamely, tracing the rim of her teacup. "But I heard it's supposed to rain next week."

"Yes, Nadir, why don't you go and enjoy the sunshine?" Erik suggested, his tone light but with an obviously-irritated, menacing undertone.

"I lived in Iran for more than three decades. I've gotten my fair share of sun. But thank you, Erik, for being so very considerate."

The comment stirred something in her memory, and she perked up a bit. "That's right," she said to no one in particular. "You two worked together in Iran, didn't you? Some…government job or something."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik stiffen, and he stood immediately. He wasn't playing anymore. With a cold, hard voice, he said to Mr. Khan, "You will speak with me privately." Christine made to get up and scuttle off into another room, but Erik stopped her with a hand. "You stay here. I will escort Nadir out for a small discussion."

Mr. Khan sat for a moment longer before getting up as well, sighing miserably. Erik stalked over to the front door, and the two men disappeared through it. Christine sat a minute more before standing and tiptoeing over to the front door, pressing her ear against it in the hopes of catching some snatches of their conversation. It was useless, though, just as it had been before. The door muffled their voices, though by their tone she could tell that they were arguing—very different from the laughter she had heard earlier.

Before she even had time to prepare herself, she saw the knob twist, and the door was flung open. The wood smacked against her cheek and temple, and she fell backward ungracefully, exclaiming in surprise and pain.

Erik saw her and swore loudly, shutting the door behind him and kneeling next to her. She was grabbing at her throbbing forehead, feeling incredibly embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping like this. Her face was red with humiliation, and it seemed to only add to the pounding pain in her head.

"Let me see," Erik said, carefully pulling her hand away. He pushed her curls away from her forehead with one long hand and examined her critically.

"Sorry," she muttered dully, as he tilted her head a bit for a better light angle. "I shouldn't have been…you know."

"There will be some slight swelling," he said, ignoring her apology. "But other than that, you'll be fine. I have some ice. Would you like some?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Thanks, though." She clambered to her feet, and Erik rose as well, pulling his hands away quickly as though he had just realized he was touching her. Not for the first time, she noticed how tall he was—he towered over her, and she suddenly felt very small and insignificant.

As she was cleaning up her tea, she was surprised when Erik spoke again.

"Nadir and I have always disagreed on many things," he said. "We are two very different men with very different lives."

"But you're friends…?" She ended her statement as a question, because she suddenly wasn't sure.

Erik gave a facetious smile. "In some odd way, I'm sure we are. But he is being incredibly nosey about you. I've always tolerated his meddling to some degree, but I am…somewhat particular about you. You understand why."

She was feeling suddenly put on the spot. Erik had been stoutly ignoring the lingering, unresolved tension between them for the past two weeks. He hadn't talked to her about his feelings regarding her or about his behavior while she had been staying with him. And suddenly it was all out in the open. This was how Erik was playing, it seemed—ignore everything and then throw it all on her at once.

Blankly, she nodded.

"There is no choice," he continued. "There never has been. There…is only you, Christine. If Nadir sincerely believes that I will hesitate for a moment if he tries to interfere, then he is deluded."

Christine resisted shivering. Somehow, it was incredibly easy to believe him without a shadow of a doubt.


	38. Chapter 38

It was times like this that she realized how sad her life was. Everyone around her was talking happily, their voices hushed but busy and friendly, and she stood off by herself, awkwardly looking around and trying to pretend like she didn't care that she didn't have friends. It was probably better that she didn't, as she was a horrible friend, but…still. Sometimes she was very lonely, especially now, standing in a big crowd with no one to talk with.

They were staging _Elektra_. It was coming on fast, and the nerves and the excitement was running rampant through the entire cast and crew. The opera ran through their veins, and even Christine, who had never actually performed in one, was feeling anxious and eager to put on a show.

That's what she was trying to concentrate on at the moment. It would all be worth it in a few weeks—all of the standing off to the side by herself and the silent endurance of Carlotta Guidicelli's little temper tantrums. Christine watched center stage idly. Ms. Guidicelli had been upset about the spotlight, which was apparently too bright for her. So they had had to send a lights technician running all the way up to try to dim it. And now Carlotta was stalking around the stage impatiently, loudly wondering why she was wasting her time standing around when she needed to be rehearsing.

Christine rolled her eyes a little and looked upward into the endless ceiling with a little sigh. Her feet and back were extremely sore, as she had been standing nearly all day, and she was hungry as well. However, she was still the newest member of the company, and she hadn't earned the right to complain to anyone, so she kept her mouth shut. And…it wasn't as if she had anyone to complain to, either.

A group of sopranos giggled and gossiped in a corner, and she glanced over at them, feeling a little jealous of their friendship. She supposed that she should go over and properly introduce herself. Wasn't that what she was taught in high school? She had to be the instigator in a friendship. But when she looked at them again, she felt extremely intimidated, and so she kept her place, out of the way of the stage crew, who were carrying things on and off the stage constantly.

_It'll be worth it, _she told herself firmly, watching Carlotta snap at the stage manager. _Opening night will make this all worth it. _

The sopranos near her suddenly all broke out into loud, high-pitched squeals of laughter, and Christine looked over at them quickly. Her gaze traveled to a small cluster of men, and one of them smiled at her as she caught his eye. Without thinking, she smiled back, wanting to be friendly. Then she realized that it was the baritone who had grinned at her before. Quickly, she looked away, blushing to her roots.

Out of her corner of her eye, she saw him move away from his group, and she had a spasm of internal panic.

_Don't come here, don't come over here, don't, please_, she desperately chanted in her mind.

Thankfully, before he reached her, someone else did.

"Hey," Meg Giry said, sounding a little breathless and looking flushed. "How's rehearsal up here going?"

"Fine," Christine lied. At that moment, the spotlight on Carlotta flared brightly—probably as a joke by the light technician—and Carlotta began a loud tirade, yelling a mixture of Spanish and English.

Meg wrinkled her nose at the sight. "She's terrible. I mean, her voice is good and everything, but she's got a big attitude I think."

"Hmm," Christine said noncommittally. She had decided to stay far away from Carlotta Guidicelli, and that also meant leaving no chance of the Spanish diva hearing about gossip and rumors and slandering behind her back by Christine. That would lead to trouble, and if her part was taken away again, she didn't even want to think about what Erik would do. He had already burned down a great deal of the Opera House.

The sections that were rebuilt were obvious, though it appeared as though they had tried to build them to blend in. Still, the paint and the molding were a little too fresh, a little too clean, and because of this Christine was able to see the extent of the damage. The fire had spread over more space than she had realized.

"That guy over there, Peter," Meg said, nodding to a place behind Christine. She looked back and saw that it was the baritone, though he had rejoined his group. "He's been glancing at you. He's nice—he went out a few times with my friend. You should talk to him. I think he likes you."

Christine laughed nervously, sounding stupid, and then felt her cheeks sting a little. "Yeah. Maybe." Could they not see the ring on her finger? Still…she supposed that it wasn't that uncommon anymore for girls to wear rings on their left hand while unmarried. And her ring lacked diamonds. It looked like a plain band. But—still. Another man interested in her was dangerous, and not just for him.

"Anyway, I came over to talk to you about something," Meg continued, suddenly sounding somewhat nervous. Christine frowned.

"What about?"

"Do you think this'll last for a couple more minutes?" Meg said, nodding to a forcefully-gesticulating Carlotta onstage.

"Definitely," Christine said.

"Let's go over here, then," Meg said, leading the way out of the backstage area and into one of the back hallways. "I'm on break too and don't have a lot of time."

They went over to a small, empty hall, and Christine watched as Meg glanced left and right to ensure that no one was around.

"Are you okay?" Christine asked, feeling nervous herself.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Meg said, frowning a little. "I'm just—well, I need to talk to you, but I'm not really sure how to start."

Christine felt her stomach seize up a little. Meg's tone was indicative of something bad. What was she going to say? Christine tried not to let her childishness spring forth, but instantly the thought came that Meg would tell her that they couldn't be friends anymore. Maybe somehow Erik _was_ angry that Christine had a friend, and he had somehow intervened, and…

"What is it?" Christine said, forcing her stiff jaw to work. "Just tell me."

"I'm just going to start off by saying that _none _of this is from me. This is all just stuff I've heard. I would never even _think _that, okay? So please don't get mad at me. I know you wouldn't. You're too nice."

"You're making me nervous," Christine admitted, trying to laugh a little. "What is it?"

Meg shifted her weight from one ballet slipper to the next several times before she looked up at Christine and said: "There're…like, rumors going around the Opera House lately. About you."

"What?" Christine croaked. "What about me?"

"Well—I'm so sorry, Christine—but some people think that you're cheating to get your roles."

Christine stared, completely dumbfounded, her stomach dropping.

"I mean, I guess it's only natural," Meg said hurriedly, her cheeks turning a bright pink. "You're brand new, and you get a role in your first production, and then you get another role in your _second _production. And then there was that whole…fire thing the night your role got switched."

Christine paled and then spluttered, "I didn't—do they think I—?"

"No—I don't know!" Meg said. "I just heard my mom talking to the managers the other day. I guess there's this whole thing with the Ghost—like he was forcing them to cast you. But he's not real, so the managers are thinking that you're the one doing it all and you're just pretending to be the Ghost so you can get the roles you want and not get caught."

"No! No, I didn't! That's awful! I would never do that!" Christine was spouting off protests, hurt and anger and shock radiating through her frame.

"I know, Christine," Meg said. "It just…all looks a little suspicious, you know? The Ghost hasn't ever really done anything huge like this. Mostly he just tweaks with the music or the set design or something. But I don't think anybody actually _really _believes he exists. Everyone knows it's usually just a musician or the stage crew that does things like that, and then we all blame it on the Ghost. It's like a fun silly game, you see? So then this happens, and it's scary. And then there was that huge fire, and…It's just gotten a little out of control, I guess. Mom said that the managers are probably going to get the police involved."

"But I didn't do anything!" Christine said desperately, knowing how pathetic she sounded. "I swear I didn't! I don't know anything. I would never force anyone to give me a part. Never!"

"I'm sure there's not enough evidence to even really charge you with anything," Meg said, trying to be consoling but only making Christine feel worse. "But I'd be careful, okay? I'm just giving you a heads-up as a friend. Look, I don't know what happened, either, but I don't think you'd resort to pretending you're the Ghost into getting a part." She actually laughed a little. "Or trying to burn down the Opera House. Listen, try not to worry _too _much. Maybe nothing will happen at all. I just wanted to let you know how this looks from an outsider's perspective."

"Yeah." She nodded dumbly. "Thanks."

* * *

Although she wanted so badly to go straight home and rest her aching feet, after rehearsal ended, Christine trudged the hallways and slouched into the practice room where Erik was waiting. After setting her bag down on the chair, she went over to the piano and rested her upper body onto it, putting her head in her arms.

"Rehearsal was a nightmare today," she muttered tiredly.

"Ms. Guidicelli takes many things for granted," Erik said, knowing exactly what she was complaining about.

"You don't have to tell me," she said. "She has all these amazing roles, and she doesn't even appreciate them." With a little sigh, she stood up straight, knowing that she had to talk with him about it—if he would talk _with _her at all. Erik had an annoying tendency to talk at her or to her, but never with her.

"Um…" she said, her frequently-used phrase that indicated she wanted to start a conversation. He took his hands from the keys and looked at her. "Yeah…" she continued stupidly. "Well, I was talking to my friend today, and she told me that…the managers think _I'm _pretending to be the Opera Ghost to get my roles. I mean—she said that they're talking about bringing the police in!"

He looked remarkably collected by this statement, though his right hand did flex a couple times before he said, "The managers are incompetent twits. They will be taken care of."

"No, don't," she said pleadingly. "Don't do anything to them. It looks...bad, Erik." There was a small pause, and the volume of her voice lowered. "And—and…I didn't know that you were forcing them to give me the roles." Her heart was sinking, and she turned pink with embarrassment. "I thought I had earned them," she murmured quietly, looking at the floor.

A long moment of silence followed this, and then he said, "I'm reluctant to rid you of that charming, naïve blush. This is a cutthroat business, and someone such as yourself—so very mild and innocent—does not last long. I've worked tirelessly to get you these opportunities. You need them for your career. You must get started while you're still so young. How do you think Carlotta Guidicelli snatched the Prima Donna position? Certainly not by talent!"

She looked at him again. "I'm not stupid," she said, her voice still quiet.

"I didn't say that, now did I?" he said quickly, curtly, beginning to become seriously annoyed. "Calm down and stop fretting over this. What has gotten into you today? Everything will be taken care of, just as it always has been. I've always taken care of you, haven't I?"

"Yes," she said, her mood sinking lower.

He stood from the bench and said calmly, "You'll be singing in this opera. I have ensured it. Your voice has been ready for months. Rehearsals and practice can only go so far—you need the experience." He suddenly seemed a little excited, and he walked a few rapid steps.

"There are so many things I have planned for you, and you'll accomplish everything with such talent and grace. This part is only the very beginning. After a few years of small roles, and with some concerts and galas, you will be ready to play some of the most iconic roles in all of opera history." He ticked a few off on his long fingers. "Gilda, Rosina, Manon, Musetta, Susanna…And during that time, we will further our work on your upper register and prepare you for becoming the greatest dramatic coloratura the world has ever heard. You would be the most radiant Marguerite, Christine—the world will die when they hear you in that role. The prison scene will be the end of us all."

He hummed a few bars of it, and he looked so content and excited with his plan, like a little kid eager to show off.

"But we mustn't rush anything," he then said, obviously trying to bring himself back down to earth. "You're still so young, and too much strain would damage your voice. We'll be patient, won't we? We have so much time to perfect your voice, and the end result will be the most incredible thing either of us has ever witnessed."

A bit of anxiety attacked her. Erik had said _years _and _so much time _and _more _time. Just how long was he planning this to continue? Forever, it seemed like. She wouldn't mind singing forever—no, that was her dream, but continuing under Erik's demanding tutelage was a troubling thought. And during that time, he would chase away every man that approached, every friend she had. Christine glanced down at the gold ring on her finger. The prospect of being alone and friendless all her life…

She then realized that Erik had begun speaking again.

"But you're silent. You look apprehensive. Is my plan unsatisfactory in some way?"

"No, it's perfect," she assured him hastily. "I'm just…overwhelmed, I guess. It seems like there's so much to do. It's—I think it's just intimidating. I don't know if I can do it all."

"The talent is there," Erik said. "You simply need to find the dedication to focus solely on your music."

There it was—she could pick it out anywhere, now. It was another subtle (or not-so-subtle) way of telling her to keep away from other men. He wanted her for himself. _Needed _her for himself.

This was perhaps the most frightening thing of all—more frightening than his face. Mr. Khan had told her about it, but she had refused to believe it. It had taken such a violent event to make her realize just how damaged Erik really was.

For nearly all of their relationship, she felt as if he had been a cold, silent, unfeeling, unwavering teacher, a sort of rigid and unyielding guardian to her. He had guided her effortlessly through her auditions and into the Opera House and had avenged her for every wrong thing that had been done to her. He had gotten her father and had saved her life by paying back his debts and providing her with a home. A virtuoso in all aspects she had cared to test, he had seemed like some impenetrable, unbreakable fortress, dressed up in baggy clothes and a mask. And his love for her had seemed just like the natural course of things. He was taking care of her, and the men that took care of her cared deeply about her. Even though she felt selfish and childish and painfully aware of it all, Gustave and Raoul had been devoted to her, and so was Erik.

But as she looked at him watching her with yellow eyes and a black, impersonal mask, she couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. Erik had—what had Mrs. de Chagny called it again?—baggage. And lots of it. It was obvious, and she could no longer ignore it. Vaguely, she wondered if Raoul had felt this way when he had agreed to take care of her after her father's disappearance.

She continued to muse over this as she left the Opera House sometime later. Surprisingly, Erik had not told her to come and stay with him this weekend, but she had a funny feeling that he'd want her back down before the opera opened, so she could have a few more days of intense rehearsal before performing.

She continued to make her way home, her mind so cluttered with thoughts that she barely heard the call of her name. It was only when someone took her shoulder that she realized he had shouted her name several times. She turned.

"Mr. Khan!" she said, immensely surprised.

"Miss Daae," he said, panting a little. It appeared that he had run to catch up with her, and he tugged at his collar for a minute. "How are you?"

"I'm going home," she said, gesturing over to her apartment building. "I just got out of a lesson." She then had the impression that he had been waiting for her to emerge for a while, because he cut right to the chase:

"Would you mind if we went somewhere to talk? A coffee shop? A restaurant? Anything."

She hesitated, however. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked. "He said—"

"I'll take the risk and any blame," Mr. Khan said shortly. "If you need me to, I'll say that I forced you to go with me."

Glancing around at the late afternoon, she felt her stomach twist in anxiety. Still, curiosity was beginning to rise, and she looked at Mr. Khan and said, "Sure, but as long as it has food. I'm starving."

Ten minutes later, they were in a small café, and Christine was awkwardly playing with her napkin in her lap, looking around. They were seated near the window, and she watched people passing, already wondering if this was a good idea.

Their waiter returned; he was a young man of average height with light brown hair. He was smiley and polite, and he passed Christine's food over to her with a little wink.

"I think he likes you," Mr. Khan said, watching the waiter leave.

Christine laughed, trying not to feel flattered about that. "No, he's just doing his job."

"Maybe you should leave your number on the bill and see if he gives you a call."

"No," she said, the teasing immediately gone from her voice. "That's…not a good idea."

Mr. Khan frowned a little, leaning closer to her over the table. "So he's still…?"

"Yes," she said, knowing what he meant and not needing him to say it.

There was a moment while he absorbed this information, and then he leaned back into his seat before gesturing to her with his hands. "I had no idea that he had let you go until I went down to check up on you, and he told me he had. But you came back down, and I was worried. Why did he let you go in the first place if only to insist you return?"

"Um…" She took a moment and shoved a mouthful of bread in her mouth, chewing slowly, trying to think of where to start and wondering if she could make it through the whole thing without breaking down. But Mr. Khan was waiting, and she watched him. He could probably help her find a way out of this…thing.

At last, she swallowed, and began: "After you...After I yelled at you to leave—sorry about that, by the way—"

He gave an impatient wave of his hand, clearly stating that he didn't care at all and just wanted her to continue.

"Anyway, I talked to him about it, and he told me that he had been stupid when doing drugs and that he had stopped…his job. It was nice for a while. He did magic tricks for me. It was fun. He was so good at them. And he was so nice and polite." She smiled a little, unable to help it. "He even gave me flowers. And then one night I finally figured out that he was the Ghost of the Opera House. Did you know that?"

A tight smile strained Mr. Khan's lips. "I knew it, though he has always denied it when I asked. But please, continue."

"Yeah. Well, one night we went out on another drive. It was…really nice." She looked back out of the window, watching some people, feeling melancholia coming over her suddenly. She spoke to the window for a minute, and out of her peripheral vision she saw Mr. Khan start slightly at her next words. "He touched my fingers, I remember. I think it was his way of holding my hand. It was kind of sweet, actually. And he talked about his mom."

Mr. Khan leaned forward suddenly at that. "He did? What did he say?"

She shrugged, looking back to him. "Not much. Well, nothing, really. He just said that the woman who had him wasn't even his mother. He said he didn't have a mom. It was sad. I felt bad for him. And…we did hold hands for a little bit after that. Then we went back to his house, and I…" Without warning, she choked, and pressed a hand over her eyes, trying to calm herself down. She took a deep breath and tried again. "I—" It wasn't going to come out.

Thankfully, Mr. Khan knew. "You took off his mask," he said softly.

Quickly, she nodded, gulping in some air and drinking some of the provided water. "I just…I wanted to know. It felt like we—I thought it would be okay. I really did. I cared about him, Mr. Khan. And I thought I could take…whatever it was. But I couldn't."

"That's not your fault," he said. "I've only seen his face a couple times, and I still have a hard time even imagining it."

Her eyes began to sting a little, and she wiped at them with her wrists hurriedly. "He was so angry at me. It was the scariest thing I've ever seen…I thought he was going to kill me."

"Did he hurt you?" Mr. Khan asked.

"No, not physically," she said softly, still wiping at her eyes. "He didn't hit me or anything. But he…there was blood everywhere, and…" She took a shuddering breath and leaned over the table, some tears slipping between her fingers. She had done so well in resisting any more breakdowns about unmasking him, but actually saying it aloud, telling it to another person, seemed to throw it all back on her, as if she was back down there, with Erik screaming at her, and the blood all over her.

She heard a voice then. "Hey, guys. How's everything—oh, wow, babe. You okay?"

Looking up, she was embarrassed to see the nice waiter looking at her with concern.

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just being silly."

"She's had a recent death in the family," Mr. Khan said, his voice taking on a soft tone.

"Oh, man. That sucks. I'm really sorry. Is there anything I can get you to make you feel better?"

"No. I'm fine," she repeated.

"Okay. Well, let me know if you change your mind." He left finally, and Christine quickly dried her eyes. The cafe wasn't that big, and she had seen more than one curious glance directed toward her from the other patrons.

They both took a few minutes to eat, and Christine found that she felt hollow and a little weak, so she ate her meal gratefully. There was a lingering tension in the air, like an unresolved melody, and she tried to sort her thoughts. There were still things that she wasn't going to tell Mr. Khan. Some things were going to be kept between her and Erik.

When she was finished, she absentmindedly played with the ring on her left hand, waiting for Mr. Khan to finish. She wondered how such an ordinary-looking man had become entangled in Erik's dangerous, unpredictable life.

"Mr. Khan?" she asked quietly.

"You can call me Nadir, Christine," he said.

"Okay," she said, a smile flittering across her lips. She then said, "Why are you still around him? You told me that you worked with him but that it was a long time ago."

"I'll tell you some things if you finish your story for me," he said.

So she started up again. She told him of her fear and horror and how Erik had said that she was never going to leave him again.

"I think he knew how miserable and scared I was, because he finally told me that I was coming back up when rehearsals started again. But he's made me swear not to leave the city, and I have to visit him when he wants me to. We still have lessons, so it's not like he's let me go completely. But I'm not staying with him anymore."

Mr. Khan scratched his cheek and looked concerned. "Normally it wouldn't be that hard for me to guess his plans concerning you, but…well, I've already told you that he's never acted this way before about anyone. I don't know what he's going to do. I'm sorry."

They both sat in silence for another few minutes. Christine worried and then tried to be rational. This really couldn't go on forever…Eventually Erik would get annoyed and tired of her, and he'd stop giving her lessons. That was their deal, wasn't it? He would give her lessons until he thought she was good enough to go out on her own. But…what if he never admitted that? What if he just gave her lessons forever and ever? Her life would be a routine of music and nervous fear, and then the occasional visits to Erik and his underground house. That couldn't be her life!

Finally, she didn't want to sit in silence anymore, and she said, "Mr. Khan? Will you tell me now?"

"Oh." It appeared that he was deep in thought, and he blinked a little and then nodded. "Yes. I guess I will." The waiter then came back, and he was carrying a dessert that she hadn't ordered. He set it in front of her.

"This is on the house. Feel better, babe, okay?"

She nodded, smiling at him. "Thank you. I will." He gave her a grin, and then he left. Christine looked at the dessert. "I kind of feel bad getting this for free because we lied to him…"

Mr. Khan actually laughed then. "If anyone deserves something sweet it's you, Christine. And you look like you're going to fall over. Go ahead and eat it."

When she had started on her dessert, she listened as Mr. Khan said,

"After a time, we both left our job, and we went to England together. He was still a little messed up. Iran had really screwed with his head, and some of the people there had…Well. I tried to help him, Christine. I really thought once he was out of Iran and off all his narcotics that he could just calm down and be…normal."

"Why did you leave your jobs for England?" she asked.

Another tight smile stretched his lips. "That's another story," he said. "And it's not very pleasant. But when we were in England, I really did try to help. I encouraged him to focus on music instead of…other things. You know that he's a genius. There was a music professor at Cambridge that he had told me he had once admired, and…this was my fault. It was my fault for thinking that people would let him be. I told him that he should send this professor some of his music, to look it over. The professor was so astonished that he begged to meet him…I told him to go. I was sure that a renowned and supposedly open-minded professor would be able to see past his…peculiarities and help him keep his mind on music. But as soon as the man met Erik, the story changed. His music wasn't _groundbreaking _or _genius _or anything like he first claimed…It needed 'work.' The professor told him to go back and keep composing, sending him his finished pieces so he could look them over and make suggestions."

"This professor didn't like Erik's music just because he met him?" Christine said. She bit her lip and looked down immediately. That was a stupid question.

Mr. Khan continued. "He…well. A month after him had begun sending the man his music, there was a huge concert, celebrating a brand new piece by the Cambridge professor. You can probably guess what happened…"

Her head snapped up. "He _stole _Erik's music?"

Mr. Khan nodded. "Thankfully only one of his pieces was performed. I can't imagine what would have happened if more was played."

It was all clicking. The piece was one of her favorites. It had been playing during the fundraiser for Raoul's company. And Erik had been inexplicably upset when she had absentmindedly hummed it in front of him. It was _his _music—yet the man who had stolen it from him was still hailed as a tragic genius, with a story like Mozart's: gone too soon, leaving the world without giving it more divine music.

Mr. Khan said, "Anyway, the Cambridge professor was being hailed as 'the new Mozart' by the time the gala was through. And when Erik heard and understood what had happened…I've never seen him like that. I had to leave—I legitimately believed that he was going to kill me. I didn't see him for two weeks, and when we met up again, he looked…completely crazy—dirty and muttering to himself. I pieced together the story by the news and his half-sane comments. Erik killed the professor and destroyed his office at Cambridge, rendering everything inside either unreadable or useless. Then he went and set his apartment on fire. He wanted to make sure that no one found anymore of his music there, because if they did, they would think that it was the professor's. I'm sure you can imagine what he must feel like every time that piece is played—every time it's credited to someone else. And he had admired the professor. It was all…pretty awful for him."

"I can't believe that!" she said quietly, disbelievingly. "That's terrible!" She didn't even ask if they had gotten lawyers or the police involved in the stolen music. Erik had his own sense of justice—which more or less translated into revenge for him.

"Yes," Mr. Khan said. "He's still very…um, sensitive about that. Anyway, we only stayed in London for a few more months, and then we came here. I lost track of him for a little bit—we split up in Manhattan—and then I heard about this 'Phantom' business. It wasn't hard to put two and two together."

"Why are you still with him?" she asked for what felt like the thousandth time. "You said that he doesn't think of you as a friend. Why are you hanging around him when he's so awful to you?

Yet another humorless smile came to Mr. Khan's face. Christine wondered if he ever smiled because he was happy.

"Our relationship is very complicated. It's a big mess of saving each other's lives and then getting each other in a lot of trouble. We owe each other lots of different things. And sometimes I feel responsible for him because I brought him here and didn't watch after him." He sighed a little and rubbed his eyes before glancing at his watch. "I suppose you'll be wanting to go home now. I've kept you here for a while."

"No," she said quickly but trying not to sound too eager. "I'd like to know more. He doesn't really tell me anything about himself, so this is good. For me."

"I don't know how much more I should tell you," Mr. Khan said slowly. "I feel that there are certain things that he should tell you himself…"

"Anything else is fine," she said. "Anything at all."

Still, he seemed reluctant. "Maybe another time," he said, glancing out of the window. "It's getting dark, and you need to go home. I have a lot of things to do tonight."

She was forced to grudgingly agree, and then he insisted on walking her back to her apartment. It wasn't much farther, thankfully; she felt emotionally and physically drained.

Before she disappeared inside the complex, Mr. Khan stopped her. "Christine," he said, sounding a little hesitant. He glanced around again and then stepped closer, lowering his voice so that she was obliged to lean in to hear. "If you ever need to leave—to escape…If you ever have the faintest urge to get out, tell me. Please. I don't know what's happening, but it makes me incredibly uneasy. I've chosen to be here and to be doing this, but you haven't. You're young and deserve a real life."

A few people passed by them closely, and Mr. Khan was silent, watching them go. Christine watched them as well.

"I'll check back up on you as often as I can," Mr. Khan said. "Say the word, and I'll have you gone. Okay?"

His eyes were concerned, sincere. Christine nodded quickly. "Yeah," she then said, her voice cracking. "Yes. I will. Thanks."

They parted. Mr. Khan had given her a lot—maybe too much—to think about, and she walked into the building and made her way up to her apartment. She wiped at her eyes a little, finding that they were stinging with unshed tears.

No matter which way she looked, she could not find a happy ending for anyone.


	39. Chapter 39

The opening of _Elektra _was a mere two weeks away. The tension and excitement that ran throughout the cast and crew was palpable. Rehearsals were long and arduous, everything needing to be perfected and polished before the curtain rose. Christine had at last learned her small section of singing and felt bolstered by the fact. Still, she had other cause for nerves and concern.

The managers were attending nearly every rehearsal. Sometimes, she could feel their eyes on her, and she would look to see them muttering to themselves. It made her face heat up and her skin prickle. What if they took her role away again? Or what if they _did _decide she was pretending to be the Ghost to get her roles? Oftentimes, she stared at the doors, expecting the police to come bursting through and arrest her.

But it seemed as if Erik had kept his promise, because although the managers muttered, they never spoke to her, and no policeman ever appeared in the theater. She sang her role dutifully, trying her best, and once Mr. Gabriel even applauded her afterward. It was hard to fight down a wide grin after that.

However, as the days continued, and the opening of the opera drew near, the anxiety settled in. What if she messed up? What if she forgot her lines? What if she tripped going on and off the stage? Her concerns were not unusual, yet since this was her first real production, they were more acute than the others'. Meg had smiled and hugged her and told her not to worry, but Christine had stubbornly and wordlessly thought that Meg didn't understand—she was a dancer, not a singer.

After one particularly-long rehearsal, Christine made her way to her lessons with Erik, yawning a little. She had had a very restless night, kept awake by her worries. Rehearsals had been difficult, as Mr. Reyer and Mr. Gabriel were being exceedingly detailed and particular about everything, and it had been hard to take it all in with a courteous smile. Her costume had been heavy, and she had been uncomfortably-warm all day. She wasn't up to being snapped at by Erik all afternoon.

Tired, hungry, and sore, she entered the practice room. And as she expected, Erik dove right in. He wanted perfection from her on opening night, and now that it was so close, he was not forgiving of mistakes. Even though she knew her part well, there were the occasional slip-ups: slight mispronunciation of words, a small tightness in her tone, or the eternal possibility of a note going sour.

It wasn't long before he was picking out everything, stopping the accompaniment to snap at her and then making her start all over again. Already emotional from a long, grueling rehearsal, she began to feel frustration build up, and tears were stinging her eyes. The negative emotions only served to make her voice flat and angry. And when Erik stopped yet again to nitpick, she immediately burst into tears.

It'd been a long time since he had caused her to cry during a lesson—she had gotten used to his criticism and his want for her to be perfect. It usually didn't bother her too much anymore, but being so tired and criticized all day left her feeling vulnerable and hurt by his short, annoyed comments.

"Why are you crying?" he demanded instantly, never one to offer comfort.

She shook her head wordlessly, wiping away tears and trying hard to stop.

"It's too h-hard," she then said thickly, feeling childish but still wounded. "I can't d-do it."

"Of course you can," he said curtly.

"I don't want to." The statement came out like a petulant, whiny child, and she gulped down tears in a sort of mute horror, waiting for his reaction.

For a long time, he didn't reply, and she was afraid. Talking to Erik like this never usually led to good places.

"I'm sorry," she whispered after a moment. "I'll sing in _Elektra. _Of course I will. I was being stupid."

"You are anything but," he said in reply, nearly shocking her tears away. "I…Oftentimes I find myself forgetting just how young you are. I push you very hard and expect a great deal from you. I know this."

She sniffled and looked up at him, beyond surprised. He spread his hands out in a somewhat pleading gesture.

"I have said this many times, but you are limitless. I would not push you so if I didn't think you could achieve spectacular results. You've already come so far in these few short months."

This praise was the highest she had ever received from him, and she continued to gaze at him in baffled wonderment. Maybe it was all a ploy to soften her fear of him, but he looked sincere.

"Thank you," she said quietly, hiccoughing a little on a lingering sigh.

He pulled his handkerchief out and handed it to her, and she mopped up her wet face, her eyes aching. Erik reached into his pocket once again, and this time he took out a small, crumpled piece of paper, which he held out to her. It was a clipping out of a newspaper.

_Elektra: the Opera House's Hopeful Ticket to Recovery_

_Following the fire which destroyed not only some of the building but a brand new production, the Opera House is trying to remain optimistic about its next show, which opens in next week. Elektra, written by Richard Strauss and first performed in 1909, is a one-act opera with which the Opera House hopes to draw back its devoted audience. _

"_Of course we feel terrible about the accident," said Mr. Poligny, co-manager of the Opera House. "The public has our sincerest apologies for any distress we may have caused them. Thankfully, no one was hurt, the damage was repaired, and our system has been improved. _Elektra_ is going to be a new start for us. The show must go on, after all!"_

_Still, there remains lingering doubts over the Opera House's production value, which some critics have called "stagnant." Familiar faces have begun to bore the regular attendees, and requests for new talent to be brought in have fallen on seemingly-deaf ears._

_However, with the recent success of the Opera House's annual gala, this reporter feels it necessary to pose questions as to why the Opera House management is not using its apparent ample talent to its fullest. Many performers are showcased to general acclaim and then are never seen again. The mystery behind the surprise performance at the after-party by an unknown soprano remains to be attended to and leaves this reporter wondering why the Opera House insists on reusing the same tired performers while hiding away promising talent. Perhaps an overhaul of casting will be displayed with this fresh start, yet for now, the public can do nothing but expect the same faces in the same old song and dance. _

"You see?" Erik said when she looked up. "You have already been noticed. After this show, I will not have to see to your roles. They'll be given to you without question. You simply need to 'get a foot in the door,' as some people say."

She nodded again, wiping away the rest of her tears and taking a calming breath. She felt embarrassed for breaking down in front of him—yet again.

"I'll dismiss you for the rest of the afternoon so you can rest," he said, taking the clipping back from her and sliding it into his pocket. "Remember to drink plenty of water."

"All right," she said, gathering up her music and feeling immensely grateful toward him for letting her leave early. "Sorry about my temper tantrum."

"Understandable," he said.

As she was opening the door, she paused and looked back. He was straightening his music quietly.

"Hey, Erik?" she said. "I'm—I'm sorry. About…that day. About taking off your mask. I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry."

He did not look up, but his hands stopped moving. She didn't wait for him to respond, instead hurrying out the door and into the hallways.

She wasn't sure why she said that and why she said that now. Ever since Mr. Khan had told her what had happened to some of Erik's music, a sad sort of feeling had begun to emerge regarding Erik. Bad things had happened to him, and it made her upset to think that he hadn't really been able to fix it, like he had so many other things. She wasn't planning on discussing this story with Erik, as it was obvious that he didn't like Mr. Khan telling her anything about his past, but she had tried to be more understanding now. Hearing things about his past made him more human, made him more relatable, and it was easier feeling something toward the sad, lonely man with stolen music rather than the cold, violent, cruel, impenetrable Phantom.

And she really did feel sorry for doing it. Before, she was only upset because he had been angry at her. Now…she was genuinely sorry that she had hurt him.

As she entered the back hallway that would lead her outside, someone called out to her, and she groaned quietly before turning to see who it was. To her shock and immediate fright, it was Mr. Poligny, the short, rotund manager. He came waddling toward her, sweating a little in the summer heat.

"Miss Daae!" he said again. "I've been hoping to catch you. Can I have a word?"

She hesitated, but it wasn't as if she could refuse, and so she nodded and followed Mr. Poligny back into the heart of the Opera House. They passed several rooms and entered into a wing she had never been in before—the administrative offices.

The co-manager led the way into a small antechamber, in which was a desk and several filing cabinets, along with a various array of miscellaneous items: broken instruments, old props, ripped costumes, damaged scores, and the like. She looked around interestedly before Mr. Poligny opened a door there and ushered her in.

It was obviously the managers' office. Two large desks faced each other from opposite ends of the room. A few windows streamed in bright sunlight, illuminating the further filing cabinets and other furniture—a large, soft-looking couch, a pretty cabinet filled with liqueur, an end table with flowers on it, and other such things. Mr. Moncharmin was in there as well, sitting at his desk, absorbed in a newspaper with a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the air.

Mr. Poligny grunted irritably. "You know I hate it when you smoke in here," he said.

Mr. Moncharmin shrugged and took a pointed drag of the cigarette. Christine didn't think it was even legal to smoke indoors anymore, but she kept her mouth shut, feeling incredibly anxious.

"Have a seat," Poligny then said, pointing a large chair which sat between the two desks. She quickly did as he said, seating herself silently and clasping her hands in her lap. Mr. Poligny returned to his own desk—his chair being much larger than Moncharmin's—and all was silent for a good long while.

At last, Moncharmin put down his newspaper and looked at Christine carefully. She remembered that he had been skeptical about her during her audition, and she looked at the floor, blushing now.

"You've been here for several months now, Miss Daae," Moncharmin said. "How have you liked it?"

"It's nice," she replied instantly. "I like it a lot…Thanks again for—for hiring me on."

She could see him wave a hand. "It was our pleasure. Finding talent like yours is what we live for."

Mr. Poligny was nodding in agreement. "Yes, you're quite talented. Mr. Gabriel and Mr. Reyer have been telling us that you've improved drastically since coming here."

"That's nice of them to say," she said, anxiety twisting her stomach. She was unsure of what else to say, what to reveal.

The three of them fell into another lapse of silence, and she stared at the clock on the wall, the ornate gold hands gleaming in the bright afternoon sun. All she had wanted was to go home and sleep…

"How do you feel about the upcoming production?" Poligny said.

"Fine," she replied. "Good."

"This is your second role, isn't it?" Moncharmin said after a pause, and she felt her heart skip a few beats—this was what they had wanted her for. They were both staring at her, their gazes focused and intense and steely.

"Yes, your second role in your second production," Poligny added. "It's uncommon for such a young, inexperienced performer to be offered such things."

"Heh," she said uncomfortably.

"Some might even say it's unfair," Moncharmin said. "We have a lot of talented women here—many of whom have gone years without a single named role."

"Oh," she said, continuing to stare at the clock, afraid they would look into her eyes and somehow see Erik floating behind them. He was lingering in her thoughts. "I don't…want to make anyone upset. I was offered them by Mr. Gabriel and Mr. Reyer, and I thought it would be…be rude if I didn't accept. I'm just grateful for the opportunity." That sounded okay, didn't it? She tried not to point fingers, but she was scared of the way they were looking at her.

"Oh, yes, understandable," Mr. Poligny said, nodding his head. "We're just curious as to why you were offered them. We mean no offense—you're a pretty, talented girl—but sometimes we as managers have to ask certain questions to keep everyone happy." His voice was light, but she could hear the accusatory undertones.

"Maybe you should ask Mr. Reyer or Mr. Gabriel," she said blankly. "I don't ask them to cast me."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them glance at each other meaningfully, and she felt like something small and easily crushed, being cornered and overpowered by something much larger and stronger. They were ganging up on her, and she had to fight down an instinct to recoil into the couch.

"We'd like to discuss this with you, Miss Daae," Moncharmin began. "If you would just tell us—"

He was interrupted by a loud knock on the door, and it opened without invitation. Mr. Reyer stuck his head in and looked around before spotting her.

"Oh, Miss Daae," he said, ignoring the scowls from Moncharmin and Poligny. "I've been looking for you. It's very important—I'm sure you two won't mind…?" He looked between Moncharmin and Poligny, who both looked like they minded a great deal, and then smiled a little.

"Actually, we would rather—" Poligny tried to say, but Reyer drowned him out with a loud, "Thank you." He motioned for Christine, and she scuttled out of the office, beyond grateful to be removed from the managers' presence. The door shut behind them, and she let out a little sigh.

Mr. Reyer led her through the antechamber and back out into the hallway, walking down past a few rooms and doors. She followed him, beginning to become a little nervous again. They hadn't spoken since the gala. What did he want? What if he told her that her role had been given away again?

He went through a hallway and then opened up the door to another room, which she entered carefully. It was another office, smaller and more cramped. An upright piano was jammed into a corner, and it was covered with scores upon scores of sheet music, many of them spilling over onto the floor. A desk was on the other side, and standing behind it, flipping through the score of _Elektra,_ was—

"Erik!" she gasped, more surprised than ever. She was so relieved to be away from the managers and so shocked to see him standing there that she lost her head a little and ran to him, grabbing onto his thin arm.

"What are you doing here?" she asked breathlessly, glancing around. The door was shut, she noticed. Mr. Reyer hadn't come into the room behind her. She was alone with Erik again.

"I'm having a harder time tolerating those meddling idiots," Erik said, and she knew he was talking about Moncharmin and Poligny.

She laughed, feeling a little light-headed and giddy without knowing why. She was exhausted and hungry and very relieved to have somehow been able to get away from the managers—it was all making her head spin a bit.

Then she said, "You know Mr. Reyer? Is that why you're here?"

"We have an…understanding," Erik said, always vague.

They paused, and she suddenly felt awkward. The last time she had seen him she had apologized for taking off his mask and had then run out of the room because she had been too cowardly to wait for his answer. Quickly, she let her hand drop, realizing where it was.

"Sorry," she said, backing away a few steps.

"I dismissed you early to rest," Erik said. "The managers will not bother you again."

Taking that as her dismissal, she nodded. "Okay. Thanks again. See you tomorrow." She turned and headed to the door.

"Christine." He stopped her with a word, and she turned around as he said, "You will stay with me this weekend."

It sounded as if he was unsure himself whether or not he was going to tell her this—he had waited until the last possible moment, and his voice had sounded rushed.

"Okay," she agreed, not wanting to argue with him again. "I'll come down right after rehearsals on Friday."

His voice was softer as he said, "I have a surprise for you. It will be ready by then."

"A surprise?" she questioned stupidly. "What is it?"

"You will see," he said. He took a few steps closer to her, his eyes going to the ring on her left hand. "It cannot wait any longer," he continued, still quiet. "It must be done soon, before the opera opens."

"What is it?" she tried again.

He seemed to struggle bringing his gaze back to her. He was still looking down, and she felt uncomfortable with his eyes lingering like that. Surreptitiously, she shifted her bag in front of her, effectively covering her and shielding her. At last he returned her gaze.

"You'll just have to wait," he said again. "Now go rest. I need you ready to work tomorrow."

Without waiting for another word, she turned and hurried out, only relaxing somewhat when she left the Opera House. She walked slowly, her stomach rumbling and her head sore. Maybe she would splurge a little and order out tonight to save herself from cooking something.

Still, the pleasant prospect was marred by the thought of going back to Erik's yet again—and then this 'surprise.' She felt any traces of excitement being squished away by an ominous lump that seemed to expand throughout her midsection. What could he mean? She was a little frightened to even consider any possibilities.

Later that evening, she was curled up on her sofa, hot tea in her hands, and she sighed deeply and closed her eyes, leaning her head back. The afternoon to herself had been incredibly nice and relaxing. As she sat there, she began to faintly hum her lines from _Elektra_, envisioning her blocking and repeating the words in her head. Erik had said not to rush it too much, as many of the others tended to do in response to the music…

Christine sighed again and furrowed her brow, shifting a little and taking a drink of her tea. She didn't feel much like thinking about Erik and the opera right now, but her mind seemed to naturally drift to that very subject. It wasn't as if she had a lot of other things to think of.

The _surprise. _Well, whatever it was, it would certainly be a surprise, as she hadn't any idea as to what it would be. Maybe a new dress…or a role in the upcoming, unannounced production. But he had said that it needed to be done before the opera opened. So what would it be?

She stood and set her tea aside before stretching and heading to bed. It felt like heaven, and she lay down with a grateful, un-ladylike groan. There didn't seem to be any use wondering. Erik would keep his secrets until he wanted to tell her, so she would just have to wait until Friday. And he was sure to work her hard over the weekend. That would be good—one last, intense stretch before opening night, just as she had thought.

Her eyes aching and her mind slowly winding down, she settled in with a sigh and slept peacefully.


	40. Chapter 40

It was turning out to be a balmy evening, and Christine half-jogged along, trying to hurry. Rehearsals had just gotten out, and Erik was expecting her. Yet when she had made to head down, she realized that she had left her toiletries bag sitting on the counter in her apartment. She panted a little as she quickened her step. The faster she got this done, the less suspicious Erik would be. And she didn't want to give him any reason to be so, especially after Raoul's sudden appearance the other night. Erik hadn't mentioned it at all, but he had been incredibly distracted and snappish during her last lesson, making her worried that somehow he had just found out. Not wanting him angry at her, she had kept silent about it, praying that everything would just blow over.

But still…he had acted oddly that last lesson. More so than usual, anyway. In it, he had reminded her no less than three times that she was supposed to stay with him.

"I know," she had said patiently every time. "I'll be there."

With a little huff, Christine waited at a streetlight, glancing behind her. The top of the Opera House's iconic roof could still be seen. She had never been up there, though Meg had once told her that sometimes small groups of performers would sneak up there to drink and watch the sunset.

She remembered her previous conversation with Meg. It had been the day before yesterday. The company was running through some of the finer bits of the blocking, and Carlotta had taken it upon herself to begin telling the stage manager how to do his job, who himself was red in the face and began shouting. The rest of the cast had started to chat idly amongst themselves and the musicians were taking the time to stretch and rest their aching fingers.

"I hate this opera," Meg had said plainly. "I hate the music. It's not pretty." Since the show was coming together, the dancers were with them instead of practicing elsewhere.

"Not really," Christine agreed. "But it has some nice parts to it, I think."

"But I bet it's exciting, right? To get to sing in a show finally!"

"If I'm not arrested first," Christine had said, somewhat glumly.

Meg frowned. "I dunno, Christine. I haven't heard my mom say anything. Maybe they're just going to let you be in it. You're good, so I don't know why they'd take you out."

"Hmm." Christine felt skeptical. They'd done it before.

"You'll be fine," Meg then assured her confidently. "And think of the good things! It's almost the weekend. Hey—me and a couple friends are going out Saturday night, to blow off some steam before opening night. Come with us!"

Why did Meg always have to invite her on the weekends she was instructed to stay with Erik? It made her feel like a bad friend, because she knew she was. After inventing a lame excuse as to why she wouldn't be able to go, Meg had looked offended. Christine wondered if such an invitation would be given ever again.

"Oh, bummer," Meg had said, though her voice had lost that cheerful enthusiasm. "Well, there's always the closing night party, then, right?"

_Yeah. Right_. Christine brushed her hair out of her face and walked across the street. Erik would go berserk if she told him she wanted to go out and have fun with other people. He'd probably ask if other men would be there, and why would she want to go, and she just wanted to run away from him and go back to Raoul, after everything he'd done for her, and…

She still wasn't sure about her feelings toward Erik. So many things had happened between them, and so many emotions regarding him had already filtered in and out of her heart. Right now it was…confusion, plain and simple. She wasn't sure _what _to feel. Gratitude? Anxiety? Horror? It was perfectly obvious how he felt about her, but he had never demanded that she love him back. He had never told her that she needed to feel the same way—and of course that was a good thing. She wasn't sure if she would be able to handle it if he did. She wasn't as afraid of him anymore, but she didn't have those warm, blissful feelings of happy ignorance that she had started to feel in his house, so she was left in some murky, grayish area, mixed feelings flooding her when she looked at him or thought of him. She was resigned to remain in this limbo until a catalyst forced her out.

After she entered her apartment and grabbed her bag, she turned right back around and stepped out onto the warm sidewalks, heading straight for the Opera House.

However, she hadn't made it two blocks before she saw a familiar face approaching her. For a moment, she stopped dead, looking around, wondering if she could hide somewhere, but Mr. Khan had seen her and was hurrying toward her purposefully. Resigned, she waited for him.

When he got closer, she gasped a little to see that he had an ugly-looking welt on his forehead. It looked relatively fresh and painful.

"What happened?" she asked as a greeting, pointing rudely at his head.

"Nothing," he said, waving it away. "Accident. I'm glad to see you. I was afraid you'd gone down before I could catch you."

"I'm on my way there now," she said. "Erik says he has a surprise for me."

A grimace crossed his face. "Yes, well…" He coughed a little and looked around, as if expecting Erik to come leaping up at him any moment. "I was wondering if you'd like to walk with me a bit."

She frowned. "I—I have to go. I'm sorry. I should be there already…"

"It won't take long," he said. "I'd like to speak to you about some things."

"Can't it wait?" she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot, feeling anxious already.

"Unfortunately, it can't," he said, sounding grim. "I've been working this out for a long while, and I'd like you to be there."

"Be where? What's going on?"

Mr. Khan sighed a little and said, "Ever since our last conversation, I've been trying to find out more about Erik's past. When you said that he discussed his mother with you, I got very interested. And it so happens that—that I'm getting more information. Tonight."

"What kind of information?" she asked.

"Information about his past," Mr. Khan replied. "I have some old friends in France that I contacted, and they did a bit of digging. They're sending me some information tonight—his birthplace, his parents' names, his childhood home..."

"Really?" She was feeling more curious by the moment, as well as a little excited.

"Yes. And I think if anyone deserves to be there and know these things, it's you."

She had actually taken a few steps closer to him, willing and eager to go, and then her ring caught a bit of sunlight and glinted at her, a reminder. She paused. "I don't know, Mr. Khan..."

"It really won't take all that long," he said again. "Tonight is my only opportunity. Who knows when we'll get another chance like this? I'm afraid that if I wait, Erik will find out and destroy any concrete evidence that I try to give to you."

He posed a fair problem. With Erik as secretive as he was, Christine didn't put it past him to ruin any chance she had of finding out more.

For a long moment, she glanced back and forth between him and the Opera House, wondering.

"You promise it won't take long?" she asked at last.

"Yes," he said.

"Well…Okay."

Mr. Khan's expression didn't clear. On the contrary, it darkened a bit, and he turned and began walking. She followed obediently. They walked along, not quite side-by-side, as he was leading. He led her away from the Opera House, and she continued to glance over her shoulder until its roof faded from view. Somewhere down there, Erik was waiting for her, maybe pacing, wondering what was taking her so long.

_If he'd just stop being so stupid about it all, I wouldn't have to sneak around him like this_, she told herself defiantly. This would be good for them. Knowing more about Erik was always a bit of a challenge, but the fact still remained that she knew so _little _about him.

After they crossed yet another street, Mr. Khan motioned to her over his shoulder, and he began to jog a bit. She resisted emitting a sigh in frustration and did the same to keep up. They continued on this way for such a long time that a stitch began to form in her side.

"Why—are—we—running?" she panted, hurrying to catch up with him.

He stopped for a moment, looking around, gasping a little himself. "Erik has been having me followed for several weeks now. I don't really want him to know…"

Somehow, the idea didn't surprise her at all, and she accepted it easily. Her heart was racing, and it was not just because of the physical exertion. Adrenaline and excitement and a gnawing, horrible worry were pumping through her.

It was getting late. The streets were mostly empty, save for the bar at the corner of the block. Loud music and light spilled from the open doors, and people stood outside, smoking and laughing and drinking, clearly enjoying the late summer night. Christine could feel the emotions building up. She glanced around occasionally, wondering if she would be able to see who was supposedly following Mr. Khan. However, she saw no one suspicious; maybe their hurrying had thrown them off the trail.

They continued along for what felt like almost half an hour at least. Christine was beginning to become very anxious and incredibly nervous. Where exactly were they going? What place would keep information on someone such as Erik? Who would have information? And why couldn't they simply send it in a letter or an email? The whole thing was taking so much longer than she had anticipated. Erik was going to be very upset…

The buildings were becoming progressively run-down. She was getting nervous, and she kept close to Mr. Khan, trying not to stray too close to the shadows and alleyways.

"Mr. Khan?" she tried to say once, as they waited at another street for a car to zoom past them.

He only shook his head and again motioned with his fingers for her to follow.

She couldn't help but think of Erik. He was going to wonder where she was. He was going to go looking for her. It was late—she was usually in his home by now. And if he found out that she had gone somewhere with Mr. Khan…Christine swallowed, a lump of fear forming in her throat. Erik was not an easy-going person. He was going to be angry.

As they jogged, she tried to think up a story Erik would believe—something like she had gone back to her apartment to get some things…and then she had…fallen asleep. Or something like that. Maybe he would be suspicious, but hopefully he would just be so relieved at having her back that his anger would disappear.

At last, Mr. Khan stopped and held up his hand. The building they were by was derelict and had the unpleasant sensation of being a spot where bad things had happened. In the dim streetlamp light, she could see a peeling, faded sign near the door: FOR SALE. The brick was old and crumbly, and there were many different types, all mish-mashed together in sloppy, varying patterns.

Mr. Khan approached a door, old and metal and rusting. He pulled a key out of his pocket and inserted it into the handle. There was a dull, reluctant-sounding _clunk_, and then the door opened with a loud squeal.

"Where are we?" Christine asked, looking around them, her voice much higher than normal. The buildings next to them were similar in appearance and feeling, and she was getting spooked.

"Come on inside," Mr. Khan said anxiously. "You shouldn't stand out there like that. Come on. Hurry in."

She didn't really want to, but being with him was better than standing on this scary street alone, so she did as he said and walked into the building.

The room was small, and she looked around, shivering slightly in spite of the warm temperature. A single bulb was hanging down, flickering feebly and creating deep shadows whenever it was strong enough to persist for more than a few seconds. The concrete walls were covered in cracks, holes, and a thick layer of grime. An old, moldy-looking desk was sitting in the corner, and a moth-eaten office chair was sitting behind it. Both were covered in dust. It appeared to be some kind of old office. There was a window in one of the walls, but it didn't look outside. She peered through it and could faintly see huge, hulking black shapes. After a moment, she realized that it must be some type of broken-down, unused warehouse, and they were in the office of it.

She wasn't sure what was going on, and she looked at Mr. Khan, who kept checking his watch and pacing.

"He's late," Mr. Khan muttered, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "Of all the days…"

"What's going on?" she finally asked, unsure if she could stand being left in the dark anymore. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

"What? Yes," he said hurriedly, distractedly. He went to peer out of the doorway again, and Christine carefully walked around the desk. Maybe the files were in there somewhere. However, it looked completely bare, save a couple of withered old papers with no writing on them at all.

"Um—Mr. Khan," she called. "I don't want to bug you, but I dunno if this is the right place. I don't see anything here. It's kind of creepy, actually…"

"No, this is where we need to be," Mr. Khan said.

"I don't see any papers or files or anything," she said, gingerly opening one of the drawers. Inside were a few dead cockroaches. She shuddered and closed it quickly before walking back around to the front of it. Mr. Khan looked extremely agitated. He pulled out his phone, tapped it a few times, and then held it to his ear. Christine listened carefully, though she tried to pretend she wasn't.

"Where are you?" Mr. Khan said immediately, angrily. "Well, you should have planned for that! Don't you realize—yes. _Yes_. Yes, right here! No, of course not, but that's why you need to get here right now."

He listened for a few moments, snapped, "Fine. Hurry," and then hung up, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

"What's going on?" she said. "Maybe I should go back. Erik is waiting for me…"

"No, just hold on another ten minutes," Mr. Khan pleaded. "Don't worry. I have—the papers, I mean. They're coming right now."

Christine took a step backward. "I don't think they are," she said. Her stomach was beginning to churn. "Why are we in this creepy room at night? I want to go. I'm going."

"Wait!" Mr. Khan said. He sighed heavily and then pulled something else out of his pocket. An envelope. Christine's heart leapt—he had been telling the truth! He held it out to her, and she took it hurriedly, ripping open the seal and pulling out the contents.

They were…pictures. But not what she had been expecting.

They were pictures of wedding dresses.

She frowned, deeply confused, and rifled through them. Almost all were wedding dresses. A few were pictures of bouquets of flowers, and she saw one picture of a set of diamond earrings, but there were nearly a dozen pictures of different gowns.

"Is this some joke?" she demanded.

"I wish it was," Mr. Khan said. "I found them in Erik's house."

Her stomach seized up, as well as her heart. There was hardly any room for imagination in this…The dresses and the flowers and the jewelry…

"What?" she said blankly. "You're lying."

But she turned the pictures over and saw Erik's unmistakable handwriting, scrawled over with details such as fabrics, cut, pricing, and other things. On one she saw a set of three figures which she realized were her measurements.

"Where did you—why," she mumbled, looking back at the dresses. They were all exquisite in every way, and she knew that each dress was absurdly-expensive.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Khan said quietly. "I didn't want to have to show you. I found them a couple days ago, when you two were practicing."

"He didn't notice they were gone?" she said.

"Of course he did," Mr. Khan said grimly. He gestured to the welt on his forehead. "I'm guessing by your reaction you had no idea…"

"No—no, of course not," she said, clutching the pictures tightly in her shaking hands.

"He's already ordered one," Mr. Khan said. "It's clear that he was going to force you to marry him as soon as it arrived—which was to be tonight."

Sickness was rising in her throat. "No, he wouldn't…do that," she whispered. "He wouldn't—I…" But words were failing her. Erik's voice was whispering in her ear. _I have a surprise for you…_

"That's why I have to get you out of here, as soon as I can," Mr. Khan said. "You'll be well taken care of. I made sure that Erik was distracted tonight. You'll have plenty of time to get away, I promise."

"But…" She trailed off, looking at the dresses again. Vaguely, she wondered which one he had ordered. She found herself favoring the one with the lace sleeves and embroidered waistline—and the flowers in the second picture were perfect…

When she looked up, she literally gasped—loudly.

Erik was standing there, watching her, his eyes eerily calm.

Mr. Khan whirled around as well, and he stumbled back quickly, the color draining from his face.

"Do you like them?" Erik suddenly asked her, and she noted that his hair, usually carefully combed away from his face, was unkempt and messy, some of it brushing over his mask, and his clothing was wrinkled and dusty-looking.

A long, long, _long _moment of silence followed. Christine stared at him, unsure of the reason for her pounding heart, and he watched her, his head tilted slightly, as if he was raising an eyebrow at her.

Mr. Khan finally said, "Erik, I'm not letting you—"

"Hold your tongue, you foul Iranian," Erik snapped. "You will be dealt with later."

"This has gone far enough!" Mr. Khan shouted suddenly. "It's sick! I'm not letting you play games with her life!"

Erik cackled, and his laugh made her hair stand on end. "You're not _letting_ me?" he said, his tone mocking. "Are you under some delusion that you are my caretaker, Nadir?"

"Look at her! Look at what you've driven her to! She looks dead, for heaven's sake! She's terrified of you, she's—!"

"_SHUT UP!" _Erik suddenly screamed. "_Don't speak about things you don't understand!"_

"I understand enough to have to do this," Mr. Khan said. "I—I should have known…What disgusts me is that I thought you didn't, but I see it now. I guess fifteen years haven't changed you…And I thought you innocent, Erik. I saved you when I shouldn't have."

Erik looked like he was going to spit fire. In two short strides, he was over by Mr. Khan, and the back of his hand suddenly collided with Mr. Khan's face. There was a horrible sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Mr. Khan fell heavily to the ground.

Christine's hands were over her mouth, and tears were in her eyes. She had no idea what they were talking about, but she knew enough to realize that Erik was dangerous right now and was not in a mood to be reasoned with, so she kept completely silent, wanting to disappear in the corner of the dim room.

Mr. Khan quickly scrambled to his feet, surprisingly-quick for an older man. In a moment, a gun appeared in his hands, and he pointed it at Erik, his hand shaking slightly.

A bizarre minute of surreal silence fell. Christine thought she might pass out. The only thing she could feel was a horrible sensation in her gut—one that was of dread. _Please don't pull the trigger. Please._

Then, to her shock, they both moved simultaneously—but not toward each other. Toward her.

She did several things very quickly. With a scared squeak, she turned, attempting to get away from them, afraid they would grab her. But she turned too fast, and she tripped over her own feet. Then she realized that there was no way to get out of the room except the door past the two men, so she tried to turn again, but she was already so entangled by her own feet that it only propelled her forward, straight toward the concrete wall.

An agonizing explosion of pain ripped across her head. She could hear her own skull smacking against the wall, and she slid to the floor, dazed and in blinding pain. Her vision was swimming—she couldn't keep her eyes open. She could just make out faint pain in her wrist as well, meaning she had probably landed on it oddly and had twisted it, but the pain in her head was so overpowering.

Something pulled her over and onto her back. She groaned loudly, and her voice seemed muffled to her ears.

"_Look what you've done!" _someone—Mr. Khan—said. His voice, too, was distant, as though through a window.

"_Get away!" _Erik said. "_I will kill you if you do not leave."_

"_No—I told you, this isn't how this is going to end, Erik. This has gotten out of control. I'm taking her. I'm sorry."_

There was sudden, blessed silence, and Christine breathed deeply, although each breath seemed to bring a fresh new wave of agony down her spine. She wanted to clutch at her forehead, but her wrist hurt too much to move, and her other hand was trapped under her own body.

The silence lasted for what felt like an eternity. Then there was sudden scrambling next to her, and—

_BANG._

An ear-splitting, house-shaking explosion next to her. It rattled her bones, made her teeth chatter, drove a nail of torture right through her skull. She wanted to pass out just to get away from it.

There was a sudden gasping noise. And then—

_BANG._

Another. Christine made a horrible, pathetic mewling noise of pain, and she felt something clutch at her ankle. For a moment, she tried to open her eyes, but they were heavy and were covered in something warm, thick, and wet.

She was suddenly shifted, and she felt hands slip under her. Her ankle had not been freed.

"_No…" _She heard low moaning. "_Please…"_

"_I'm sorry, Erik. I'm sorry." _

"_Nadir…Please…I would die…"_

Her mind was fading in and out now. She could feel unconsciousness creeping in on her, and yet Erik's moans of pain were beginning to make an alarming feeling spread in her chest. Christine felt the hand being pried from her ankle—the long, cold, thin hand of the masked man.

"_Christine..." _It sounded like he was crying.

"_I'm so sorry."_

When she was shifted in Mr. Khan's arms, the pain in her head exploded to an unbearable level, and when he began to walk, she felt herself slip away.


	41. Chapter 41

Everything came fading in slowly. Sound came first—a smooth, constant rumbling and the occasional strange whizzing noise that rushed past her. Christine tried to lift a hand and push her hair out of her face, but when she moved it, a sharp jolt of pain shot up through her shoulder, and she let her hand flop down again. She could feel something underneath her, a steady vibration, and she released a weak, pathetic-sounding groan.

"Christine?"

It was a warm, concerned voice. She struggled for several long moments before forcing her eyes to crack open. There was dim light ahead of her, and she squinted.

"Christine, honey? Are you awake?"

She blinked a few more times, finally realizing that she was in a car, draped across the backseat. With a heavy, thick mouth, she tried to say, 'Erik,' but it came out sounding like another groan.

Something warm took her hand, and she had to force herself to focus to see that it was another hand, large and masculine. Not Erik's hand, though—no.

"I can't slow down, baby. I'm on the interstate. Just calm down. You're okay."

She could see Raoul sitting in the driver's seat, and at last she recognized his BMW. Christine looked around some more. Cars were shooting past them, no more than bright lights darting across her vision, really, and the glare of the lights hurt her eyes. Her whole head was throbbing insistently, painfully, and each spasm seemed to hurt more and more the longer she was awake.

There was a sudden loud, piercing ringing, and Christine squeezed her eyes shut, as if doing so would block out the sound as well. Her hand was released.

"Hello?" she heard Raoul say hurriedly. "Yeah. We're on the interstate right now...No, of course not. No. You told me not to…Yeah. But—no, just listen. I want to get her to a hospital. She looks really bad. I can't believe what that freak—yeah. No, I get it, but—" Even in her dazed state, she could hear Raoul's anger in his voice. He continued forcefully, "Look, I understand, but I really think she needs to go to a hospital…Well, _I _don't. Who knows what else he did to her!" There was a long pause, and Christine blinked slowly, feeling sleepy and stupid. Raoul finally sighed and said, "Okay. Well…I guess I'll call you when we get there. Yeah—a couple more hours. I hope you're right."

His hand came back to grasp hers again, and he said, "I'm here, Christine. It's okay."

She sighed and let her heavy eyes drift close. Feeling too miserable to fight it, Christine allowed sleep to overcome her again.

The next time she awoke, she was able to come into consciousness with a lot more ease. Her body was a little achy, and her head was still throbbing. There was a faint ringing in her ears. Her right wrist was also hurting, and she used her left hand to gingerly touch her face. It felt a little numb, but she rubbed her eyes, feeling sweaty and sticky and uncomfortable. The heaviness of her body told her that she had been in the same position for a long time. Feeling her neck pop a few times, she lifted her head up and peered blearily out of the window. It was still very dark, and though cars passed them, there weren't as many.

She looked around again; when she craned her head, she could see Raoul's gaze reflected in the rearview mirror. His brows were knit, his eyes focused on the road. They were also a little red and swollen, and she wondered if he had been crying, though that was very unlikely. He was probably just exhausted.

His blue eyes then flickered to the mirror, and his brows arched in surprise when he saw her.

"Hey!" he said, risking a quick glance backward. "You're awake!"

She rubbed at her eyes again, trying to grind out the remaining sleep. Her throat felt parched. Where was she? Where were they going? How did she get there?

And, most importantly, _where was Erik?_

Her heart began to pound loudly, and she looked around in utter confusion, feeling panicked as she tried to remember. Her head was still in so much pain, and it wasn't allowing her to think as clearly as she wanted.

"It's okay," Raoul said quickly. "You're okay now, Christine." He reached over and then handed a water bottle out to her. "Here, drink this. Nadir said that you need to drink lots of water."

Christine accepted the bottle with a shaking hand, and she unscrewed the lid with some difficulty and gulped down more than half of the water. It soothed her thick, clogged mouth and dry throat, though it hurt her stomach.

She grunted as she pushed herself up to a sitting position, her left arm shaking as she did so. She carefully positioned her right wrist in a place that wasn't too painful. As she sat there, one thing became completely clear.

Erik was not with her—she didn't know where, but she remembered the gunshots and the cold hand grabbing her ankle, and then that was it. Christine suddenly felt sick again, and she leaned back against the seat, hoping that she wouldn't throw up. Her forehead was so sore, and she touched it gingerly. It was warm and raw under her fingers. She had hit it when she had fallen down, she remembered.

And now…Mr. Khan must have somehow gotten her to Raoul. After passing out, she must have been hoisted up and out of the old warehouse and delivered to her ex-boyfriend.

"You doing okay?" he asked.

No. _No. _She was not _okay_. She would never be _okay_.

"Where am I?" she said, her voice hoarse and raspy.

"We're on the interstate. We're almost there."

"Where?" she said, peering out of the window. It was no use, as it was very dark, and the signs she did see were merely advertisements for food and gas stations—nothing to tell her what city she was in, or even what state she was in.

"Nadir Khan told me about his friend's house. He said we should be safe there for tonight." His voice was tight and anxious. Christine was more confused than ever.

"You know Mr. Khan?" she said.

"Yeah. He told me…everything. And I…Christine." His voice suddenly broke, and Christine looked at him in shock. Raoul hurriedly wiped at his eyes, keeping one hand on the wheel. She had never seen him cry. He said, "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you. After everything you went through, and I wasn't there to help you. Nadir told me what—what that man did to you, and I…" Raoul took a deep breath, collecting himself. "I'm here for you now. I swear that I won't ever let that freak touch you again."

Christine was torn between horrified concern for Raoul and angry defiance at him calling Erik a freak.

"Where are we going?" she said, wanting to get the conversation away from Erik's 'freakishness.'

"To Nadir's friend's house, like I said," Raoul said, flipping on some air. It blew into her face and felt good against her flushed, hot, sticky skin and throbbing forehead. "We should be there in less than an hour. You've been sleeping for a long time."

"I don't…understand," she said after a few more minutes. They passed by a huge semi truck, and Christine looked at it, squinting against the lights. "I don't understand what happened."

"I know," he said. "You're probably freaking out right now. Just…calm down. I'll explain."

She was already tired of him telling her to _calm down_, and she didn't like that tone in his voice—that gentle tone that one would use on a small, crying child or a very sick person. She was neither!

Raoul took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and forcefully. He was driving fast but carefully, and Christine continued to look for clues that would alert her as to where she was. Were they even in the same state? They passed some exits to various towns and cities, but she didn't recognize any of the names.

"Nadir found me a month or two ago. Somehow he knew that we had been…close before all of this started. He told me that he was scared for your safety. I was, too, because I hadn't been able to see you or get a hold of you for…like months, and then when I did you acted strange. Then he told me everything." He paused and wiped at his eyes again, swearing angrily. "I should have been there for you," he said. "I was too stupid to see what was happening to you. I was so busy thinking about _us _that I wasn't thinking about you. I can't even—I'm…" He trailed off, looking ahead forcefully, and Christine examined his hard, furrowed brow and his blotchy, flushed face.

She rubbed at her own eyes again. He hadn't even given her any answers, really. "Raoul," she said, forcing herself to be calm. It wouldn't do to start screaming for Erik. First she needed to find out what had happened to him—if she could understand. Her head was so foggy right now. "What happened? How did you find me? I was…with Mr. Khan…and then Erik came…"

"It was Nadir," Raoul said. "We made arrangements to meet up so he could get you out and bring you to me. Christine, I thought…You looked dead—you had blood all over your face. I have never been more scared in my entire life. But Nadir said that you had accidentally hit your head and that you were just going to be unconscious for a while. Nadir told me that he shot _him _two times, but that he wasn't sure if _he _was dead, so I have to get you into hiding until we can be sure." Raoul paused, a hard glint coming into his eyes. "How hard could it have been to kill that freak with a gun? A shot between the eyes would've done it."

"No—stop," she said immediately, her stomach clenching up. _No, no, no, no, no, no. No. _Erik wasn't…He couldn't…No. The pain in her head increased.

"I'm sorry," Raoul said immediately. She could tell that he meant it, too. "I shouldn't be talking like that. It just…makes me so mad, what he did to you."

Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she felt sick again. She couldn't fully comprehend everything yet. The first thing that she had to think about was the…gunshots she had heard. _Erik had been shot_. Christine carefully pressed her cheek against the window, hoping the coolness would soothe the churning in her stomach. However, the more she thought about it, the more worked up she became. Just where was he shot? And apparently Mr. Khan didn't know if he had…_killed _Erik. So Erik might still be alive, but he was alone…bleeding…hurt…without her…

"I'm going to throw up," she said, clutching at her stomach. Bile was rising in her throat.

"Hold on one more minute," Raoul said, glancing at her with panic. "I see a rest stop that's a mile away."

She rolled down the window and let the cool night air blast in her face, ripping her curls back. No—she would not throw up in Raoul's expensive car. But the thought of Erik's panicked, pleading voice came to her.

_No…Nadir. Please…I would die…_

_Christine._

Raoul rolled into the rest stop, and the car jerked to a halt. Christine tugged on the handle, stumbled out, fell to her knees, and vomited. With shuddering gasps, she emptied her stomach and tried to get air into her lungs. It was gross, always being sick like this. She staggered over to a provided bench and sat down, leaning her head back and listening to the cars fly past them on the interstate. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, trying to get her stomach under control and calm her racing heart.

After a minute, Raoul sat by her and handed her a water bottle that he had bought from the nearby vending machine. She accepted it, somehow able to be grateful for him through this whole thing.

"I want to take you to a hospital," Raoul said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He pressed a careful kiss to the top of her head. "But Nadir said that we probably shouldn't register our names anywhere just yet, in case _he _looks for you."

"I'm fine," she lied. She wiped at her mouth again and her runny nose. "Thanks for not throwing up when you see me throw up all the time."

He laughed a little, sounding sad. "It's the least I can do."

* * *

Christine tossed and turned, sore and sweaty and very uncomfortable. She stared at the dull wood paneling on the wall, illuminated by a soft orange glow of a lamp that would have been fashionable twenty years ago. Raoul was snoring softly on the floor beside her, and she envied his deep sleep. The couch she was lying on was old and lumpy, and the springs were pushing into her. Raoul had insisted that she sleep on it, though now she was thinking that the shag carpet would have been much more comfortable.

Mr. Khan's friends had turned out to be an old Iranian couple who spoke with thick accents and were very kind. The entire house carried a lingering scent of garlic, and although the hosts were kind in every sense of the word, Christine was counting down the hours until they could escape the small, sweltering house. A fan was buzzing dully at one corner of the room, but it provided no relief whatsoever. She had kicked off her provided blanket and was trying to get at least a couple hours of restful sleep, but she could not stop thinking. Her head was still aching, and the pain relievers Raoul had given her had done nothing but take the sting off for a few precious hours. Now it was back, and she felt dizzy and confused again. Her wrist still hurt, too. She wondered if she had sprained it. It was swollen badly, and she could see bruising around it. However, she didn't know how to treat a sprain, so she just tried not to move it too much. She lay there, wanting to get out.

She had argued with Raoul—telling him to take her back, to drive back to the city, but Raoul had stubbornly refused, saying that it was dangerous and she needed to get away from _him_. She had even screamed at him for a moment, that he didn't know anything, that she _had _to go back, but he did not budge, not even when she had smacked him in the chest a few times, so angry and upset and confused that she couldn't contain herself.

"I know it's bad now," he had said, listening calmly to everything she said. "But it'll get better."

And so she had allowed him to take her into the Iranian couple's house, where she had to behave and be polite, all the while her stomach twisting and her heart pounding painfully.

What if she just got up, took Raoul's car, and drove back to the city? Even though she still wasn't sure where she was, she could find out easily by stopping at a gas station and asking the cashier. She could drive for however long it took, go to the Opera House, go down to the basement, and find Erik. Christine felt the pocket of her jeans—the key was still there. But as she looked at Raoul, she had a funny feeling that he was keeping the keys on his person, just to keep them safe from her in case she tried to do something. And…she wasn't sure if she would make it. She felt incredibly sick still; she must've gotten hurt when she hit her head.

Those gunshots kept echoing in her ears, making her want to scream.

Christine wiped away some sweat on her neck, staring at the ceiling. Maybe she could find Raoul's cell phone and…

She groaned silently. Like she would even know who to call. There was no way to know what had happened, whether he was even alive. She felt so helpless and useless, lying there.

To her anger, she felt her throat begin to clog. The reality of it was finally sinking in. _Erik could be dead. _

She cried as quietly as she could on the couch, using the blanket to muffle her girlish little sobs. Why? Why had she pried? If she hadn't gone with Mr. Khan, none of this would have happened.

Christine rubbed her eyes, squishing out more tears onto her hand. For a long while, she laid there, sniffling and hiccoughing. What was she to do? She didn't want to wait until Mr. Khan showed up—if she saw him again at all, that is. Christine felt a rush of boiling anger and hatred toward him. If he ever dared to face her again, she would—she would—

Christine sighed a little. Really, what was there to do to him? Give him a good slap, maybe, but then what? Nothing would change what he did. Still, maybe he would come and he would tell her that Erik was fine, completely fine, and was waiting for her return…

She lay there, staring across the small, hot room. Raoul grunted a little and shifted in his sleep. Why had he been dragged back into this? She had done everything she could to keep him out of it all, yet now he was here, risking everything for her. She wanted him to drive her back to the city, give her a hug goodbye, and let her sort through her confused feelings. His involvement seemed to complicate things a thousand times over, because she still cared deeply about him and wanted his happiness—but she couldn't see him coming out of this scenario happy in any way.

Her eyes were aching, and she closed them, trying to get herself to relax and sleep. She wasn't sure what Raoul had planned for tomorrow, but she was sure that she probably needed to be coherent and understanding for it.

For a few hours, she dozed fitfully, forcing herself not to think of Erik too much. It only agitated her and made her anxious and restless. There was nothing to be done right now. It was torture, lying there and knowing that Erik could be somewhere, hurt and alone. She said a silent prayer, asking God to keep him alive and safe.

_I know he's done bad things, but he needs me. Please make sure he's okay. _

The sun finally crept into the front room, creating an orange glow that was only intensified by the bright shag carpet. When she saw Raoul stirring, she quickly pulled the blanket over herself and closed her eyes, turning her back to him.

After a while, the entire household was awake, and she felt Raoul put a hand on her shoulder and shake her gently.

"Christine?" he said softly. "It's time to get up."

She pretended to have had a very deep, long, and refreshing sleep, and she thanked the Iranian couple for their hospitality and extremely comfortable couch. Refusing offers of meals, Raoul gathered their things and, saying thanks one more time to the couple, pulled Christine out and to his car.

"Where are we going now?" she asked, pulling the seatbelt across her lap. She was tired and very hungry, and her head was hurting.

"There's a hotel a couple hours away," Raoul said. "But we can stop for food before we head out, if you want. I just didn't want to have to worry that nice couple about feeding us as well."

An hour later, they were zooming down the freeway again, and although her stomach was no longer complaining, she still felt sick.

A word was beating in her brain: _Erik._

"What are you going to do?" she asked him at last.

He shot her a confused look. "We're going to a hotel. Nadir said he made reservations for us. We'll stay the night and then go to another one tomorrow—we have a long ways to go."

"No. I mean _after_. After all…this."

There was a pause, and then he said quietly, "I dunno. Pick up the pieces. Start over, I guess. We'll go somewhere new. I'll take you anywhere you want to go."

"But my singing!" she protested. "Raoul, I have _job _there."

"Look, it's not like you can go back there right now!" Raoul said. "We don't even know if _he's_ actually dead. If he's not, we're just going to have to keep running. If he is…maybe we'll talk about going back. I have plenty to get us by for a while."

She felt a little choked at this. "What happened was an accident," she said quietly, looking out to the window. "It wasn't his fault. He didn't hurt me."

"Maybe not that time, but Nadir told me that he has some really serious mental problems. It's not your fault, baby, but…I mean, it was probably easy for him to manipulate you. You're just so nice and trusting that you didn't even realize what was happening. I think after some time away, you'll see what he was doing and realize that it's not like it could have ever _worked _between you two." Raoul's brow was furrowed, and his mouth was curved into a frown.

"Erik really cared about me," she insisted. "He just didn't know how to tell me. He's never been in love before."

She could see Raoul's lips tighten at the last sentence. "I'm not trying to hurt your feelings," Raoul said. "But…it wasn't love, Christine. That's not how a healthy, normal person would express himself. He had big problems—problems you couldn't fix. Nobody could fix."

She was silent for a moment, watching her face in the dim reflection of the window. Her forehead was raw and bruised and swollen, and there were shadows under her eyes. Her hair was frizzy and her face was blotchy. She looked like a mess.

"Mr. Khan tricked me," she muttered quietly.

"He said it was the only way." Raoul visibly hesitated for a while, glancing over at her a couple times. "Christine…did he tell you about Iran?"

"What?" she replied. "What—like how they worked over there?"

"Sort of," he said, still sounding unsure, like he was debating whether to say anything or not. "Nadir told me…well…"

"What about Iran?" she said.

Raoul took a deep breath. "I guess that _he _was thrown in jail." It was obvious that he was determined not to say Erik's name, and it annoyed her, but she wasn't going to say anything about it.

"For what?" She didn't want to know the answer. Somehow it didn't surprise her that Erik had been to jail, but…it surprised her that he had been _caught _doing something and had been put in jail for it.

They drove for another little while, and she waited impatiently for his answer—even though she didn't want to know. Finally, he said,

"He raped a woman."

The air disappeared from her lungs. Instantly, the pounding in her head increased at a painful level.

"No, he didn't," she said blankly.

"You can't know that," Raoul replied.

"Yes I can," she shot back, feeling childish and upset and panicked. "He didn't. He wouldn't ever."

"Nadir somehow helped him escape from jail, and then they traveled to England and entered illegally. That's why Nadir's still here and not back in Iran. He can't go back or they'll put in him jail. And as soon as Nadir told me what had happened, I haven't been able to stop worrying about you." He cast her a sideways glance, and she noticed his hand grip the steering wheel tighter. "I just have to know. I need to help if I can, and…did—"

"Stop," she commanded instantly. "No. You're not going to ask me that."

He was silent, his mouth tight and grim-looking. Christine's stomach and head were churning, up and down and forward and backward in a horrible, nauseating motion. No—Erik didn't…he _couldn't_…It wasn't true.

She couldn't let it be.

* * *

The hotels were nothing fancy, but at least they weren't dirty and cheap. They were middle-class rooms, meant for middle-class businessmen or middle-class families out for a weekend vacation. Their rooms were always standard: two queen-sized beds, a bulky television, and a small bathroom. Christine spent most of the first two or three days sleeping or dozing. The bruising and swelling was receding, but the dizziness and confusion took much longer to go away. Raoul told her she probably had a mild concussion, which scared her. He helped her with that as well as her sprained wrist. As an athletic person, he had had lots of experiences with both injuries. Within three days, most of the pain in her wrist was gone, and she only felt a twinge when she bent it too far.

However, the absence of the pain left more time for worry. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to feel. Erik was hurt, and she couldn't get to him. The only hope she had was for Nadir Khan to appear and finally tell her what was happening.

She pestered Raoul constantly. "Is Mr. Khan coming today?" "Did Mr. Khan call you?" "Has Mr. Khan said anything to you?" "What did Mr. Khan say to you on the phone?"

Raoul didn't have answers, either. "I don't know when he's coming. I don't know what's going on. Sorry, Christine. We're just going to have to be patient."

Patience would not come to her. She had nightmares sometimes. Erik's death was always drifting in and out of her mind. What would she do if it was true? Another person she cared about…gone too soon.

And the guilt was eating away at her as well. If she hadn't followed Mr. Khan, then she and Erik would be living their old lives. It would have taken time, but maybe they could've slowly rebuilt that fragile relationship that they had once had.

Sometimes she daydreamed and imagined that he was fine. He was just looking for her. Christine spent a lot of time looking out of the windows of their hotel rooms, watching and wishing that a tall, black shape would appear below. Then he would find her and take her back.

It had been a week. A week, and no news, no nothing. She and Raoul spent a lot of their time in silence. He was pensive and anxious-looking, always checking his phone for messages or watching the news, as if something about Erik would appear. They were nervous for completely different reasons.

Christine didn't even try to explain herself to Raoul. He would never understand why she wanted Erik to come back and take her home. She wasn't sure she understood herself. After everything that had passed between them, everything she had learned, everything he had done…and she was looking out of windows, glancing over her shoulder, listening to the whispers of the night, hoping to see him or hear him, but nothing happened. She would lay in bed, listening to Raoul sleep in the bed next to hers, his breathing always deep and even. Once she blushed and remembered those few nights they had slept in the same bed—he had wanted different things. He still wanted different things, things she couldn't give him. And sooner or later, he would have to realize that.

One warm autumn day, she sat by the window. Raoul was napping on the bed. Christine carefully touched the sore spot on her forehead and tried to imagine what it would be like if Erik appeared. She would scream and run downstairs and throw her arms around him—even if he wasn't used to people touching him. She would squeeze him and probably cry into his shoulder.

As she imagined this, she blinked in surprise. _Someone _was down there. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the parking lot below had been vacant for the past half hour. But there was someone coming into the hotel…And she recognized him.

"Mr. Khan!" she said loudly, unthinkingly.

Her shout woke Raoul, and he sat up and blinked sleepily, running a hand through his hair.

"What?" he grunted.

"Mr. Khan is here!" she said, jumping down from the narrow window ledge. She ran over to the door and opened it, looking up and down the hallway as if Mr. Khan would be there already.

"Oh, good," Raoul said. He stood and stretched. "C'mon, close the door, Christine. He'll be up in a minute."

Christine obeyed, though she hovered near it, peering through the peek-hole every so often. Her stomach was twisting, and she was torn between relief and terror. His news would either make her the happiest person alive, or it would shatter her completely. And she had to beat him for what he did. She was going to give him a piece of her mind.

Raoul was watching her carefully, and she tried to contain herself for his sake, but she was too anxious.

"What do you think he'll say?" she said.

"Hopefully something good," Raoul said. "I don't want to have to keep running."

"Me neither," she said absently. She wanted to go back to the city and be with Erik.

A few moments later, there was a soft knock on the door, and Christine yanked it open, her eyes wide.

Mr. Khan looked exhausted. His clothes were wrinkly, and there were deep shadows under his tired eyes. Even though she felt a huge rush of emotion at seeing him, she kept it controlled, waiting first to hear what he had to say.

He entered the room, and she shut the door behind him. Mr. Khan and Raoul shook hands, and Christine hurried over beside the Iranian.

"Well?" she said breathlessly.

Mr. Khan was silent.

She turned white at his expression. The air seemed to disappear from her lungs. She stared at him.

"It's…He's…" she stuttered. Her vision was swimming, and her heart had stopped.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Khan said quietly.

Without another word, he held out the familiar black mask.


	42. Chapter 42

The world was frozen.

Iced over in a layer of chilly snow, the streets and buildings looked like nothing more than a white blur. It was a dark night—thick clouds covered the skies, threatening the city with another snowstorm. Even though March was approaching, the weather was stubbornly clinging to winter, unwilling to allow the sun to break out and warm the earth.

Christine looked through the window, her breath fogging the glass slightly. The light of the streetlamps below was foggy in the winter haze. It had been well over an hour since she had seen anyone try to brave the cold night. She was warm and safe here, and it was brightly-lit and secure.

A high-pitched _ding _sounded through, and she looked back. The microwave was signaling that her food was ready. With a little sigh, she stood and made her way over to it, pulling out the microwave meal and grimacing at the smells. She had never liked these, but she hadn't felt up to the chore of cooking in…months, and it was too expensive to go out every night.

She ate alone, quietly, subdued, focused on forcing herself to enjoy the meal while not enjoying it at all. Still, it didn't seem to matter. Did it really matter, in the end, if she enjoyed this dinner—this solitary dinner in her solitary apartment?

Glancing around, she saw the plain furnishings, the plain white walls and the plain layout. It was a small, cheap little place. Raoul had helped her find it and had paid for the first two months' rent. She was incredibly ashamed of this fact. Sometimes, when they had still been in contact, she couldn't help glancing at him, because when he didn't think she was looking, she had seen all the pain and bitterness and sorrow and regret written across his handsome features. And all of those emotions were her fault.

Still, for however bad she felt, she knew that it would be best if she didn't try to mend it all. Giving him false hope would be crueler than anything. Christine could not be with him and be content at the same time. Too many things had changed, too many things had happened to her, and she was not the same person that he had fallen in love with. He wouldn't ever be able to understand her and her feelings when she didn't understand them herself.

So she had left, telling him that they needed this. She was poison to him, she knew. He was still such a good man, wanting to help her and care for her, and in the end, she had had to accept some of it, as her funds were virtually nonexistent. And when she had attempted to start repaying him, he had actually yelled at her and told her that there was no way he would take that money.

Being back in Raoul's apartment for just a few days had been hard for her. After being away from the city for weeks, she had been dreading to come back. It was as horrible and depressing as she had known it would be. Everything she looked at was a reminder. Even if she wasn't prone to sobbing at the drop of a hat anymore, she still had those moments when a sound or sight would trigger something.

For three weeks after she had come back, she had gone to a psychiatrist, only to please Raoul and give him some peace of mind. The therapist had been a pretty African woman with a deep, soothing voice and a bright, friendly office. The situation had been explained, and the woman had gently told Christine that she had been manipulated, lied to, and abused by a sociopathic, codependent, narcissistic man. There had been talk of anti-depressants and other medications, but after taking the pills for two days she had flushed the rest down the drain. Soon, she had become so upset and anxious when it came time for her appointments that even Raoul admitted that it would be best if she didn't go anymore.

She felt better without the therapy sessions. Mundane, day-to-day tasks gave her more time to think and reflect than her hour-and-a-half sessions on the psychiatrist's plush red couch. Christine had a certain feeling that her appointments were only a regression—she was stronger without them.

For a moment, she paused in eating and looked back out the window. It had started to snow again.

"Snow," she said aloud, to nobody at all, breaking the pressing silence.

The snow was steady, and it was coming straight down, meaning there was little wind. Christine remembered a previous time it had snowed in the city. She had wandered out into it, crying. Had it really been more than a year ago? One year, and everything had happened—her father's death, her short career at the Opera House, lessons with…

Well. She didn't like to think much further than that. It had been almost six months since…_it _had happened, and she was still trying to get herself to realize that fact. It was like it was with her father. This was final. This was…enough. She had to let herself know that _this _would have to be enough for her, because nothing would change what happened.

After cleaning up her small dinner, she went back to her chilly bedroom and lay down on the small, uncomfortable bed, staring at the ceiling. Up above her were two guys going to college. They had introduced themselves to her when she had first moved in, had joked and laughed and tried to flirt, but after about ten minutes they must have realized that she was a wreck, because they left and hadn't bothered to talk to her since. Perhaps that was good—she needed to get used to that if she was going to be here again—alone.

She knew she couldn't stay in this city for the rest of her life. Right now she was saving to move back to Sweden. However, that felt like a distant dream, years and years in the future. She was still young, she knew. Twenty-one was just the start of life, and yet she felt as if she had lived all of her life in one short year. All the events that seemed to matter had already happened to her. What else was there to look forward to?

Tomorrow morning at six o' clock her alarm would ring, and she would get up and go to her boring, ordinary job at a realtor's office. Mostly she answered phones and filed papers. Her life was meant to be lived in obscurity. She had been wrong, she decided. Her destiny wasn't the stage anymore. It was living a simple, unobtrusive life, earning her own way by doing commonplace jobs that paid her a real salary. That was at least somewhat satisfying, she decided. Earning her own money and knowing that she had done something to make it _hers_ was good. She didn't want to be a burden to anyone else, ever.

For a few more minutes, she continued to lay there, until a loud, sharp _clunk _from above startled her. There was muffled laughter. They were probably getting drunk. She had heard girls laughing earlier that evening. Not looking forward to a night of listening to _that_ yet again, Christine rolled off the bed and pulled on a coat, gloves, scarf, and a purple woolly hat. Then she headed out the door.

It was cold out, colder than she had anticipated. Usually the thick snow clouds kept it warmer, but she shivered as she walked. After walking a couple blocks, she saw a homeless man huddled up against a building with a small overhang, trying to keep out of the snow. He was sleeping. Christine dug her hands into her pockets and pulled out…nothing. She had no money in her pockets. Wondering who he was and why he didn't have a family to look out for him, she unwound her scarf and carefully put it over him.

Only a few cars trundled past her as she continued, and she tugged her coat collar high to compensate for her lost scarf. Most of the restaurants and other shops were closed, but a few bars were still open, their neon lights shining dully through the snowfall. Through the windows, she could see it packed with people. As she looked, she saw a flash of blonde hair, and she paused, wondering…But no. It wasn't Meg, and she felt a little silly even thinking that. Poor Meg! Christine wondered what she thought of her now. Christine hadn't performed in _Elektra_—hadn't even bothered to show up. The whole company had probably thought she was a weird, eccentric, pitiful girl who didn't keep commitments. Well, it didn't really seem to matter now. It wasn't as if she was going to go back ever. But she did miss it. A lot.

She continued to walk, her head bent low to keep the snow from blowing onto her face and into her eyes. Her job was thankless and repetitive, and although she had worked there for almost four months, the majority of the other employees didn't even know her name. It was almost a smack in the face when the woman who sat in an office right behind her asked her for it just last week. Still, it paid, and she was able to keep her apartment as well as put a small amount into her savings. She needed enough to buy a ticket back to Sweden as well as get set up in an apartment and find another job over there.

After a while, her teeth were starting to chatter, and she wondered if she ought to turn around and head back. She had walked quite a distance. Hopefully by the time she returned, it would be quiet upstairs so she wouldn't have to call and complain. She had already been dubbed as the weird neighbor; she didn't want to be the nagging one as well.

One final gust of freezing wind confirmed it, and she looked up to see which direction she needed to head to get back.

Somehow, she was both immensely surprised and not surprised at all to see that she was standing next to the Opera House.

For a long while, she gazed at it, now feeling oblivious to the cold. She hadn't been back here, not in all the long months she had been back, and it looked the same as ever. Without thought, her hand moved down to her pocket, grasping the key that she had carried around for months—not because it was useful, but because she couldn't bear to part with it. Her eyes strayed over to the alleyway where she knew the door was located.

She had never come this close to the Opera House before because she knew she wouldn't be able to resist. And she couldn't; she found her feet moving toward the door in the alleyway.

Thankfully, it unlocked smoothly, and she let herself in. It was still freezing cold in the building, but at least she was out of the snow, and she felt her way to the other side, feeling for the groove and fumbling with the cold flashlight. She clicked, but no light came on. The batteries were dead.

Several long moments passed, and she stood there, heart racing, wondering why on earth she had come back here, in a place full of so many mixed memories and feelings. Why had she done this? What was she going to prove?

As she thought this, she felt her eyes sting a little, and she wiped at them with her gloved hands hurriedly. She was tired, she knew. It was late, and she needed to go back to try to get a full night's sleep.

But instead of leaving, she threw the flashlight down, put a hand on the cold stone wall, and began her descent. She argued with herself every step of the way. _Go back, go back, go back_, her mind chanted at her, and she knew it was a good idea. If she went down too far, she might get lost and forget the way back up—and it was dark in those tunnels.

Still, she kept going forward. If she got to Erik's house, maybe she would be able to salvage some of his music, look around once more…Mr. Khan hadn't said much about Erik's death, only that he had been buried outside of the city in an unmarked grave. And Christine had hated that, because there was no way to go and mourn for him, no place to lay flowers and cry and wish things were different.

It was getting steadily colder the farther down she went. The air was stale, meaning the entryway was far behind her now. She looked back, which was stupid, as she could see nothing at all. When she came to forks or branches in the tunnels, she was able to navigate the first few by memory, but soon she was left standing there, thinking hard. And after five more minutes of wandering blindly, she knew she was completely lost.

She tried not to panic—but she did. She hurried down several tunnels, her breath coming fast, her heart racing, feeling closed in, trapped. The stone walls were endless. Nothing felt familiar, no direction seemed right. Everything was leading her to places she couldn't see, couldn't remember. Her hand was glued to the wall, as she was afraid to let go and wander around with no sense at all.

Why? Why had she felt this stupid need to come down here when she knew this would happen? Her cold, lumpy bed was waiting for her—alone but safe, and she had abandoned it all just to run around these tunnels in terror. She was trembling in fright and from the temperature, and with a shuddering gasp, she sat down, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. She remembered those times Erik had led her through these tunnels confidently, her grabbing onto his sleeve. What had he said? If she got lost, she wasn't supposed to wander. She was supposed to sit and…sing.

Quietly, she began to do just that, knowing perfectly well that it would do nothing. There was no one down here to hear her, except maybe some spiders and rats. But she continued. She hadn't sung in months, and her voice was weak and out of practice.

_I will always find you._

But the longer she sang, the worse she felt. There was no miraculous vision of Erik approaching. She was still alone, still freezing, and still horribly lost. She sang dozens of songs, everything she could remember from her repertoire, even old pop songs from the radio—anything.

With a cracked, trembling voice, she continued to whisper out her song, feeling more alone and lost and confused than ever before. Everything she had worked for, everything she had wanted, was all gone. Her father…dead, no matter how hard she tried to keep him alive. Her career—gone, even though she had wanted it so badly. And now…

A heaving, heavy gasp escaped her, and she finally broke down, sobbing loudly and uncontrollably. Her cries were ringing through, echoing slightly in the tunnels. These past months had shown her that she could continue with her life, but it would never be the life she wanted. This was her life, now: sad, confused, and completely alone.

She hadn't cried like this in such a long time—this complete abandonment of dignity, reserve, modesty, and courage. She was alone and afraid and more heartbroken than she had ever been. Gulping down air between her sobs, she wiped at her streaming eyes, but she continued to cry, long and hard.

Living by herself for four months had been difficult because there was no one else to distract her from her own depressing thoughts. Work managed to keep her mind busy…for a while, but when she returned back to her apartment and sat there, her thoughts drifted, and she always wondered if the pain and the frustration and the _guilt _would ever go away.

The _guilt_. It was worse than anything else. Why had she gone with Mr. Khan? Why hadn't she been more proactive? She had just stood there, looking between them, standing stupidly, silently, as they fought about her. If she had simply spoken up, intervened somehow…then maybe she wouldn't be here in the tunnels, freezing cold and sobbing fit to burst.

It was her father all over again. Why hadn't she looked harder? Been braver? The men she had cared about most had paid the ultimate price for her mistakes and her cowardice.

She looked up and into the darkness, wondering briefly if she would ever find her way back up. Somehow, the thought didn't bother her too much anymore. So what if she never came back? It wasn't as if anyone would miss her…She meant nothing to anyone anymore. Raoul wouldn't care that she was gone. She hadn't seen him in over three months, and that was all the better for him.

What was she to do now? Go on living and pretend like an entire year hadn't happened? Erase all the memories and emotions? Pretend as if she hadn't met the one man who understood the music like she did, who had made her feel more things than anything or anyone else? At that moment, if she had a chance to erase all of the memories, she would have taken it. Anything would have been better than the hurt and the pain.

The absence of music had hurt so much worse than she had thought. She hadn't even attempted going back to the Opera House, and she hadn't sung. The sight of her father's violin had been painful, so she had hidden it away in her closet, dreading the sight of it. She could never be satisfied now, not when she had heard true music and true genius.

When she paused to take some more breaths, she wiped at her eyes and heard a faint scuffling sound. It scared her immediately, and she momentarily debated getting up and running or staying very still and quiet. The quiet part was hard to come by, as she was hiccoughing and gasping softly as a result of her heavy tears.

Hoping it was nothing more than a rat, she waited for a few long minutes, but the sound didn't go away. It seemed to be getting louder. She crossed her arms over her chest, shrinking into herself and squeezing her eyes shut, even though she couldn't see anything anyway. For a few moments, she prayed intently.

_Please, God, please—please, I won't think of suicide anymore, I promise, I'm so scared, please…_

The shuffling was right near her, and she opened her eyes. There was a long moment of stillness.

"Who's there?" she whispered, trying to sound brave, but her cracked, trembling voice said otherwise.

Silence. She felt stupid. It was probably just a rat.

Then.

"_Mechta?"_

She would have recognized that voice anywhere, heard it cut through a cacophony of any sound, and she let out an anguished wail and grabbed the cold wall to scramble to her feet.

"Erik? What? What?"

He was silent again for a time. She was having a difficult time finding out where he was, and she groped around blindly, heaving on loud gasps, wanting to break down into sobs again.

He spoke again. "_Un rêve?"_

She laughed, bizarrely and anxiously. "A dream? No, Erik, I'm here. Tell me where you are." When she held her breath, she could hear him breathing, a heavy, rattling, ugly sound, and she drew closer to it. Her fingertips brushed some part of him—hard bone and cloth, and she curled her fingers in surprise.

"There," she said softly, reaching out again and grabbing onto him tightly. It was his forearm.

For a long minute, she stood there, unsure. Whenever she had (guiltily and sadly) imagined any reunion with Erik, she always imagined tight hugging and desperate kisses and promises to never leave again. However, Erik seemed to be…confused.

"Erik?" she tried again, wiping at her wet face. "It's me. Christine. I'm here."

"I know who you are," he snapped in sudden English, his voice curt but slurred heavily. "You always come back here—coming back here and making me wish I was dead!"

His talk was scaring her already. "No," she said shakily. "I've never…This is the first time I've been down here. Are you…? Were you imagining me, maybe? I'm real now." Carefully, she stepped closer and leaned over to embrace him. She pulled back instantly. He smelled of old laundry and sweat, all of it overwhelmed by a strong scent of stale alcohol.

"Are you drunk?" she demanded.

"No," he said curtly, though he swayed dangerously. "I am dreaming."

"I think you're drunk—not dreaming," she said, feeling incredibly sad and also a strong, inexplicable desire to laugh. This reunion with him was as unexpected and awkward as everything in their relationship had ever been.

"C'mon," she said, tugging on his arm. He stumbled forward a step. "Take me back to your home."

He grunted in irritation but did not protest further and began the slow walk back to his house. Soon Christine realized that he was leaning on her—at first impossible to tell, but the weight was coming, and she began to struggle a little. He seemed to be unsteady on his feet.

"You're too drunk to even walk," she said. They came to a divide in the tunnels. "Which way?"

When he was silent, she feared for a moment that he had forgotten, but soon he said, "Left," and they made their way through another long tunnel.

She wondered what was wrong with him. This was only the second time she had seen him like this—he was always so clean and polished.

"When was the last time you showered?" she asked, hoisting him up a little, her arm around his narrow waist.

"You're very rude," he said. "Why—why am I even taking you back with me? Perhaps I should just leave you here, to disappear as you always do…"

"Can it," she panted, feeling out-of-breath as they descended some more stairs. "Just tell me which way now."

Yet all of those other feelings were being overshadowed, crushed, by the warm, overwhelming joy of him being next to her. He was _alive_. He was _alive _and next to her and not dead. This feeling was worth those months of agony and depression. She would have waited ten years if only she knew she could have found him alive—he was worth it.

After another few laborious minutes, they were at his front door, and she checked; it was unlocked. Feeling her heart leap to her throat in pleasure and anticipation, she pushed it open, but she stopped short when she saw.

"Oh—oh, Erik…"

It was a disaster. His house had once been immaculate, everything organized neatly and all his possessions stored carefully. But now...There were countless books on the ground, loose pages lying idly on the grimy floor. Some of the furniture was tipped over. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the room felt cold, disused. A few of the light bulbs had gone out, and those that remained flickered feebly, giving the room an even lonelier feeling. She looked over at his piano. It, too, looked almost gray in the dim light, the dirt and grime thick on the body and the keys. He hadn't been playing…

He shifted a little by her, and she blinked. "Sorry. Yeah, let's go."

They walked through the room, and she opened the bedroom door, not expecting much better and sad when she was right. The bed sheets were hanging off one side, strewn across the floor. Old bowls, plates, and cups were littered across the room. All of his clothing was either on the floor or crumpled up at the bottom of the closet, and everything looked wrinkly and filthy. A package of moldy bread was there, as well as some stale crackers. And there were bottles of alcohol everywhere—empty ones on the floor, full ones on the bedside tables.

Her eyes were stinging with unshed tears as she looked at it all. He had obviously not been taking care of himself well.

"Okay," she said bracingly, though her voice was wavering. "Let's get to bed, c'mon, you're completely plastered."

He did not object as she pushed him onto the bed, and she got a look at him for the first time in almost six months. Even though she wanted to cry and hug him tightly and swear to never leave again, she had to grimace a little. He looked utterly woebegone. His hair was untidy and dirty. His shirt was hanging off one of his bony shoulders, several of its buttons missing and the bottom of it hanging over the waistband of his slacks. If possible, he looked skinnier than ever.

And his mask was off. Her stomach clenched tightly at seeing it again. At least this time he wasn't screaming at her—he still didn't even think she was real. Dark, clotted blood was gathered on his hollow cheeks, and she realized that it must have been from the cuts he had forced her to make. Somehow he had opened them up again. She shivered, not wanting to think any further.

He laid down at her request, and she pulled off his scuffed shoes before tugging the musty blankets back to their right spot and up to his chin, wishing she had something clean and warm for him.

"How's that?" she asked absently, smoothing the sheets. He was watching her closely, and she knew that he was completely out of it, otherwise he would've been making every attempt to hide his face from her.

"You're terribly beautiful…for a dream," he said.

She blushed and couldn't help a small smile creep onto her lips. It had been so long since someone had called her beautiful—and Erik never had.

"You're wasted," she replied, though she couldn't manage to get rid of the smile.

He grunted in an annoyed sort of way, but she put a careful hand on his chest, and tears filled her eyes as she continued to smile. It wasn't the romantic, desperate reunion she had wished for—but it was a reunion, and he was alive, and so was she, and at last they were together.


	43. Chapter 43

He fell asleep not long after that. Whether he actually went to sleep or passed out, she wasn't sure, but seeing him so relaxed was good. For a few more minutes, she simply sat there, a hand on his chest, feeling him breathe in and out. Happy tears were slipping down her cheeks, and she couldn't help but continue to smile a little. After all this time, all those long months of torture, and he was before her. There were still so many questions and so many problems, but she was content to let them be for a while. Instead, she focused on him, on the fact that he was breathing and alive—not as well as she would have liked, but alive, which was much better than she had thought.

After a moment, she rubbed his bony chest gently and then stood, stretching and looking around. Cleaning his house would take a while, and she would have to return aboveground soon to get things like fresh groceries and clean clothes and linens for him. It was a good feeling—to be able to take care of him in some small way. He had always taken care of her, provided for her and protected her, but for now, she wanted to take care of him.

Frowning and wrinkling her nose, she gathered up all the liquor bottles and poured all the contents down the sink. The last thing he needed was alcohol. Then she gathered up all the empty bottles and other debris from his room, working quietly and quickly. She piled the dirty laundry by the front door, hoping she could salvage some if it with a good washing.

When his bedroom was somewhat tidy, she moved on to the other rooms. The kitchen was trashed as well. Smashed cups, bowls, and plates littered the floor and countertops. Whether they had been broken on accident or on purpose, she couldn't tell, and she didn't want to know. She cleaned everything as best she could, found nothing in the fridge but sour milk and moldy cheese, and then went to clean his front room.

The piano was in a sorry state, and she wiped it down thoroughly, cleaning all the little crevices between the keys, trying to return it to its original luster. His violin was also thickly coated with dust, and it nearly broke her heart to see how neglected his beloved instruments had become. As she was wiping down the violin, she glanced over and saw, with shock, that the eternally-closed door was slightly ajar. It was too dark to see what was inside, and she took a few hurried steps over toward it, stretching a hand out to push open the door further. But as her fingertips brushed the wood, she paused and let her arm fall. Whatever was in there, she wanted Erik to tell her first. She wanted to talk to him about it before she went barging in. Perhaps there would be things she would not understand—things that would frighten her without Erik's explanation. So she gently closed it and returned to her chores.

The house soon looked clean, but it still had a cold, unused feeling to it, and it was still dim. The only thing that kept her from being scared was the knowledge that Erik was in the bedroom. She couldn't resist running over occasionally to peer into it and ensure that he was still there.

At long last, she had done all she could, and she returned to the bedroom, her lower back beginning to ache from bending over so many times to pick things up. Erik was quiet still, sleeping deeply, and she looked at his face, her stomach clenched slightly. The blood on it made her feel queasy, so she gathered a bowl of warm water and the cleanest towel she could find. She sat on the bed beside him and took a deep breath, deliberately staring at his face.

"This is just his face," she said quietly, dipping the towel into the water with shaking fingers. "This is just his face—_Erik's_ face. This is what he is. That's all."

Still, it took many more minutes of just watching him before she felt brave enough to take the damp towel out of the water and press it against his hollow cheek.

"It's okay," she whispered to herself. "It's just Erik."

With deep breaths and long pauses, she cleaned up the clotted blood, ensuring that she was looking at him the whole time. When he was clean, she felt exhausted and exhilarated. His face hadn't gotten any better—it was still horrific—but she was able to look, and that tight feeling in her chest had lessened.

She was worried that the cuts would become infected, but she had no idea where any antibiotic ointment was located, and since everything in his bathroom medicine cabinet was unmarked, she wouldn't take the risk of putting some unknown cream onto his cheeks. So she simply hoped that cleaning him up was the best thing she could do for him.

With nothing more to do except wait for him to wake up, she took one of his clammy hands between her own and held it, stroking the protruding knuckles and knotted blue veins and watching him, silently willing him to wake up and see her and realize that she was there. But the minutes passed, and he continued to sleep. She was tired as well, having been up all night, and so she carefully curled up in an empty spot on the bed, keeping one of her hands on his and letting her eyes close.

Before she had realized she had fallen asleep, she was startled awake, and she sat up groggily, peering through the bedroom. Erik was still sleeping, and she blinked in confusion, unsure of why she had woken up. Then she heard it again—the sound of a door closing. Knowing now why she was awake, she crept off the bed, padding over to the door and peering out, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Erik was vulnerable and virtually helpless, and she was always so weak and afraid. Still, she was prepared to defend him—fight anything for him and to keep him safe, and so she looked out, afraid and determined.

To her complete alarm, it was Mr. Khan, and he was looking around in apparent confusion. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she exited the bedroom, closing the door behind her so her conversation wouldn't travel and wake up Erik.

For his part, Mr. Khan looked equally astonished to see her, and they simply stared at each other. Then a deep scowl formed on Christine's face, and she folded her arms.

"What do you think you're doing here?" she demanded. The thoughts of all the things she had planned on doing to him if she ever saw him again flashed through her mind.

He looked around at the house again, seemingly stunned. "I…" he said slowly, pulling off his heavy coat and setting it on the couch. "This is the last place…I thought I'd see you…"

"Funny," she snapped. "I was going to say the same thing about you."

An expression of guilt crossed his face. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, moving into the room. "This must all seem very confusing for you."

"Usually I didn't think people who shot other people were allowed to come into their houses," Christine said, bitter and angry. "Or maybe you have your own rules here."

Mr. Khan held his hands up in the air, a gesture of defense. "There's no need to be snappy," he said. "If you calm down I'll explain it all to you."

She plopped down on the couch, crossing her legs and continuing to glare. "Go ahead."

"I…" He hesitated, and then he said, "I did what was best for everyone."

She almost laughed out loud, still feeling incredibly sour toward him. "Really?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "Erik had gotten out of control. He needed to be stopped."

"Well, you certainly stopped him!" she said, sounding shrill. "Two bullets did the trick!"

"I wanted you to have a choice," Mr. Khan said, sounding annoyed at her sarcasm and bitterness.

"You didn't give me one!" she said. "You just tricked me and carted me away."

"I know—I know," he said. "I did things that I shouldn't have, but I did it for you. You didn't deserve that life Erik would have forced you into…And he agrees."

"What?" In that moment, all of her purposefully-rude manners were forgotten. "What do you mean?"

"Erik understands why I did what I did," Mr. Khan said. "Even though he isn't exactly…happy with what happened, he knows that it had to be done."

"Wait. You're saying that he's _okay _with the fact that you _shot _him?" she said disbelievingly.

"Maybe not the shooting part," Mr. Khan said, having the nerve to smile a little. "But he knows that my hand was forced. I couldn't let him do that to you, and now, neither can he."

"I don't understand," she said plainly.

Mr. Khan sighed, rubbing his face and sitting in Erik's large armchair. Then he seemed to realize where he was sitting, for he quickly stood. He faced her and said, "I had to get you out any way I could, and time was essential. Erik had become unreachable. He wouldn't listen to reason. I was afraid he was going to do something to you that would be unforgivable—something he would realize and regret later. He has…problems with things like that. He becomes so caught up in the moment, so fixed on something, that he doesn't understand the damage he does until much later."

She stared at Mr. Khan, feeling hollow and afraid. "Did you think he was going to…?" The question hung in the air, unfinished. She didn't want to say it.

Mr. Khan understood. "I'm sure Raoul de Chagny told you about Erik's stint in an Iranian prison."

"Yeah—but Erik wouldn't…I mean, he didn't…? He wouldn't do that to me."

"I don't know," Mr. Khan said. "He was going to force you to marry him…Forceful…um, consummation seemed like the next logical step for him, but we can never be sure. I'm not sure if even Erik remembers what he had intended for that night."

"Well, maybe he wasn't going to force me to marry him, then," she said.

He shook his head. "Erik has openly admitted that he was going to, even if you tried to refuse."

She sat for a minute, absorbing it all, her heart pounding loudly. "So—but it didn't happen. You and Raoul made sure it didn't. I mean…you almost killed Erik. That was…overreacting, don't you think?"

Mr. Khan sighed a little. "Not then. I wasn't planning on using my gun, but obviously I had to. I've told you before—Erik would not listen to reason. He was completely fixated on the idea of marrying you…I doubt he would have listened even to you."

She swallowed, finding a lump in her throat. "But he's alive."

"Yes," Mr. Khan said. "Miraculously. It's only thanks to a doctor friend of mine who owed me a favor. I don't know how I got so lucky—the first bullet went into his leg and the second didn't hit any major organs. Even though I shot him, I didn't…I didn't want him to die. I really didn't."

It was all so hard for her to comprehend. The friendship between Erik and Mr. Khan was more complex than she would ever be able to understand. Somehow…Mr. Khan still felt comfortable enough to visit Erik's house after he had _shot _him twice.

"It was a painful recovery," Mr. Khan continued. "He…wanted you to come back, but I wouldn't allow it to happen, and he wasn't in any real position to threaten me. He'd say your name over and over while on medication. It made him…delirious, and he'd just lie there, staring as if you were there and saying your name."

Her heart gave a painful tug.

"After a couple months, he finally knew what he had done, and he stopped talking about you. In fact, he hasn't mentioned you once since. Maybe it is too painful. I don't know. But he hasn't asked about you anymore."

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she rubbed them impatiently, too overcome with questions to cry.

"But…what are you doing here?" Mr. Khan then asked at last. "I thought you'd be out of the state—out of the country, even—and married to Raoul de Chagny."

She shook her head quickly. "No, I couldn't. We're not together—we don't live together or even really see each other anymore. It was…too hard. For me. And it wasn't fair to him."

"It's been almost six months," Mr. Khan said. "Why have you come now?"

"I know," Christine said. "I couldn't bear the thought of coming back here, but I don't know why I did tonight. It just sort of…happened. It wasn't planned. I didn't ever plan on coming back, not when I thought he was de—gone." She looked around the house again, dim and cold. "It doesn't look like he's taken very good care of himself."

Mr. Khan shook his head, going over to his coat and pulling a pill bottle out of the pocket. "Not particularly." He sighed a little and set it on the end table before picking up his coat and putting it back on. "Well, come on. I'll show you the way back up if you need me to."

She frowned deeply. "What?"

"I said I will show you the way back up. If you need me to walk you home, I will. It's dark and very cold up there."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said blankly. "I'm here…to stay."

Mr. Khan paused, looking at her, his eyes growing wider. "No," he said. "I can't—you shouldn't. It was very kind of you to check back up on him, but perhaps it's best you leave now, while he's asleep and can't stop you."

"He's _alive_," she said, as if he didn't know that. "He's alive! I've spent six months thinking the worst. I'm not leaving now."

The familiar expression of worried, tired exasperation crossed over his face. "Christine," he began calmly. "You have no obligation to him. You don't owe him anything. It was generous enough of you to come back to see him once more, but you can't be serious about staying here. Erik may feel remorseful for what he put you through, but it hasn't changed him. He's still very damaged and incredibly unstable. In fact, he might not…" He trailed off, looking over toward the closed bedroom door.

"Might not what?" she prompted.

He shook his head again. "Never mind," he said. "But there's nothing for you down here. He didn't come after you because he wanted you to have a real life. Don't throw it back at him. If you said you were staying and then left again, you would really kill him."

What Mr. Khan said was undoubtedly true. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest—another moment of truth. Did she really care about Erik enough to stay here? To endure his moods and his flaws and the knowledge of all of the awful things he'd done?

But she thought of the crushing depression she had been in and how it had somehow lifted right off her shoulders the instant she had heard his voice. She remembered the literal tears of joy and the warmth pulsating through her veins as she saw him and helped him into his bed. Yes. It would be enough.

"I'm staying," she repeated firmly. "Like you said, I deserve a life, and I'm going to choose what to do with it. So I'm going to stay here."

"You still don't understand," Mr. Khan snapped, growing angry for the first time in their conversation. "Erik wouldn't be able to handle it if you left again. You would kill him. In a couple weeks—months, maybe—you will realize what you've chosen, and you'll leave. Then I will be left to try to clean up the mess and have to sit and watch him die."

Then she saw it—Mr. Khan didn't want her to stay because he really did not want Erik to die. It was incredibly touching, somehow. He was trying to do this for Erik, not for her. And then she realized that she hadn't left a good impression on Mr. Khan—all of their whispered conversations and her always saying how much Erik scared her. Mr. Khan didn't believe her. He was convinced that she would leave. But she was afraid that nothing she would say would convince. Nothing except time.

"I'm going to stay," she repeated. "I couldn't bear going back, not when I know he's alive. I want to be here for him."

He still looked angered and annoyed, and he zipped up his coat roughly, his brows knitted deeply and his mouth thin. Before he could get to the door, she picked up the bottle of pills he had set down. "What are these?"

"Pain medication," Mr. Khan said shortly.

She blanched. "Do the…It's still hurting him after six months?"

"It's for his pneumonia," Mr. Khan said, heading over to the door. "It helps with his symptoms. He's used up everything else he had."

Clutching the bottle tightly, she took a deep breath. "He has pneumonia?"

"It's not usually life-threatening to middle-aged men," he said. "But it makes him incredibly ill-humored." He opened the door. It was obvious he wanted to leave—maybe to get away from her before he said something nasty, because she could sense that such a comment was bubbling beneath the surface. She felt bad for him, but she also felt a defensive indignation. She was staying here, with Erik, and it wasn't up to Nadir Khan to tell her how to live. He'd tried that once, and it hadn't led to good places.

With a curt nod, he disappeared, the door slamming shut behind him. She started at the noise and then hurried over to the bedroom, hoping that it hadn't woken Erik—and slightly hoping that it had. But he was still sleeping, and she went back over to the bed, sitting beside him again and watching.

What Mr. Khan had told her had touched and saddened her. Erik hadn't come after her because he had wanted to let her have her life…Nadir Khan said that Erik hadn't changed, but the simple fact that he had let her go spoke wonders to her. Erik had consciously made the choice to let her choose what to do.

"And I chose to come back," she said quietly, putting a hand back on his thin chest.

Now that she knew he was ill, it was easy to feel how warm his skin was; a change from its usual coolness. She filled a bowl with tepid water and found another towel and tried to keep the heat down a bit. This time it felt easier to touch his face, and she put a hand on his neck, feeling his pulse flutter and his skin warm further at her touch.

Before too long, her eyes traveled down to his exposed collarbone and to the remaining buttons on his shirt. Quickly, she set the bowl aside and peeled the blanket back a little. With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned the shirt, wanting and needing to see. If she was able to see and absorb without Erik's temper getting in the way…maybe it would turn out better.

His shirt was untucked, making it easy to spread it open, and in the dim light, she let out a little painful gasp. It was…as she had expected, but it was still hard to look. He was gaunt, emaciated, his skin dry and discolored, spread taut over his ribcage. She could see old, white scars crisscrossing his chest and shrunken stomach. The bullet wound was bright pink, healed over but still a painful reminder of just what had happened. It was a hard reality check. She had been separated from him, unable to really see the effects and see him recover, but that scar was vivid and told her in no uncertain terms that he had been in pain and had suffered because of her.

Just as she had put two fingers on it, she felt him move underneath her hand, and she took it back quickly, looking up to see him open his eyes, appearing somewhat disoriented.

When his gaze focused on her, he stared for several long, silent seconds, and she couldn't help but give a wide smile.

"Hi," she said quietly. Then she blushed. Nearly six months of thinking he was dead…and she said _hi. _

After another few seconds of staring, he seemed to remember that his mask was off, because he put a hand over his face. Then he looked down and saw that his shirt was unbuttoned, and it appeared like he couldn't decide which he wanted to hide more. He tried to button his shirt with hasty, shaking fingers, but his hand kept going back to his face, as if it was instinct to keep it there. She tried to help, feeling guilty, but he shoved her fingers away.

"_What—" _he snarled, his hand jumping from his face to his shirt. "Just _what _are you doing here?"

The question threw her for an inexplicable loop. Of course she should have expected this question, but she had been so focused on the fact that he was alive that she had kind of brushed aside planned explanations for him.

"I—I," she stuttered. "I came back."

"And why is that?" he said, his voice a harsh, rasping growl. He had finished with his shirt and was now pushing himself up to a sitting position, obviously unwilling to be so vulnerable before her.

"Because," she said lamely. Then she tried again. "Because I…thought you were dead. And that made me sad."

"How very nice to be _sad _over my death," he said, cruel and sarcastic to the end. "Well, you have seen that I'm not. I won't bother you anymore. Nadir has seen to that. So you are more than welcome to resume your wonderful life. I would see you to the door, but I'm feeling somewhat ill right now, so you'll have to excuse yourself."

She had not expected _this_—an outright anger at her returning. She hadn't expected him to tell her to leave. Selfishly and childishly, she had expected him to cling to her and command that she never leave his side again. Feeling put on the spot and incredibly unprepared to deal with a moody, angry, sick Erik, she got up from the bed and stood there, pulling on some loose curls.

"I don't want to leave," she said honestly. "I came back…to stay."

His short laugh was cruel and bitter, and he struggled to get out of the bed, cursing angrily. He swayed when he stood, and she rushed to support him, but a foul glare stopped her, and he made his way out of the bedroom, hobbling and looking very ill. The alcohol last night seemed to have temporarily disguised his illness. He limped a little, making it clear which leg had been injured.

She followed him, anxious and upset that this was not going better. He snatched up the bottle Nadir Khan had left and promptly swallowed three large, white pills.

"Mr. Khan says you've got pneumonia," she said from the doorway.

"Somehow it no longer surprises me that Nadir still feels the need to cosset you and spoon-feed you details about me." He threw the bottle down and then headed over to the kitchen. She again followed, keeping her distance but not wanting him to think she was trying to avoid him or anything.

"I came back by myself," she said. "I got lost in the tunnels and then sang. You found me."

"Did I?" he said. "I can't recall any of that. Well, that must explain this hangover."

"Yeah, you were pretty hammered," she said, grinning but then sobering under his withering glance.

He was rummaging through the empty cupboards, pushing aside the newly-washed dishes, opening drawers and looking through the refrigerator.

"What're you looking for?" she asked, wanting to be helpful.

"Brandy," he said shortly, pulling out some plates to look behind them.

"Oh," she said softly. "I…poured all of that down the sink."

There was a terrific crashas the plates were thrown to the ground and shattered all over the newly-cleaned floor. She jumped and put a hand over her pounding heart, looking up at him, afraid.

"_What are you doing here?_" he then said, his voice a loud, thunderous roar. "What is it you want?"

A long silence followed, and her eyes had filled with tears. She brushed them away quickly.

"I came back for you," she said shakily.

"You should return to your husband," Erik said shortly.

"What? No," she said. "No, Erik—we've never…No. I'm not married. Raoul and I never…I couldn't. How could I?"

He stared at her, making no move to cover his face, and she could see how completely broken he was—she had never seen him so consciously disheveled and dirty. He was not hiding anything anymore. It seemed like he was trying to frighten her…and she was ashamed to admit that it was working.

"I didn't know you were alive," she said, her voice trembling. "If I had known…I would've come back so much sooner. And I don't know why I chose last night to try, but…I came back, and you found me." She approached him slowly and reached out for his hand, holding a couple of his long fingers. Then she continued, trying to be completely honest and open: "I know you don't believe me, and—and you have good reasons why. I've been really messed up for a really long time. And I'm not saying I'm completely better, but…" She looked up at him. "I really want to be here with you. For you. I've had a long time to think about it, and this is what I want."

He pulled his hand away, and she tried not to let the hurt show on her face.

"I have nothing more to give you," he said.

She shook her head. "I don't want anything but you."

After a moment of contemplation, he turned his head away and hacked out a few deep coughs, his thin chest convulsing. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked back at her.

"I have never been a good man," he said, "and I never will be. You can't honestly want to stay. I am…touched by your efforts, but I will not try to stop you or follow you. You have my word."

"I've had too much time to think about that," Christine replied, feeling braver now that he wasn't shouting. "And I'm being honest and very serious when I say that I want to stay here. But—but…" Here she faltered. "If you really…don't want me here…If you'd prefer it if I go…then I will. But if any part of you still wants me, I'm here." She bowed her head a little. "I've done a lot of terrible things to you, and I understand if you can't forgive me. But I want to stay. If you'll let me."

There was silence again, and she stared at the floor, her stomach churning and her heart pounding. What if he ordered her away? Said he wished she had never come back? Now that she knew he was alive, would she ever be able to move on? She had a feeling that if she left, she would be leaving a large part of herself down here with him.

She could feel him watching her. He said abruptly, "You have lost weight. You are too thin."

"I could say the same thing about you," she said, surprising herself when she was able to glance at him and smile a little. His brow was furrowed, hard, and he was staring at her, leaning against the counter to give some relief to his leg.

After a few more silent moments, he suddenly moved, reaching out and grabbing her left hand, yanking it upward to his eye level. Startled, she looked up at him.

"You still have…" he said quietly, staring at the ring on her hand.

"I've never taken it off," she said truthfully. His gaze traveled up to hers, and after watching him for a long moment, she carefully, slowly, and cautiously stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him, feeling him tense at the touch. He was uncomfortable and bony and still filthy, and she leaned her head against him, closing her eyes and feeling a few tears slip out of them. So many weeks and months, and he was in her arms.

When she felt a hesitant, unsure hand rest awkwardly on her back, a smile crept onto her lips.

"You are not a dream?" he then said, and she laughed a little, pressing her cheek into his thin chest.

"Not a dream," she said. "I'm here."


	44. Chapter 44

Her feet were freezing.

Hopping from one foot to the other to get the least amount of contact with the cold floor, she hurried over to the bedroom, creeping through the front, where Erik was dozing in his chair. The bedroom was dark and she grabbed the first few pairs of socks she could find, pulling them on hurriedly. Only when she was back out into the light did she realize she had pulled on a pair of Erik's black socks over her own. They were much too big for her and went past the middle of her calf. She shrugged and headed back to the kitchen, her feet warmer.

The snow had begun to melt, but it was turning out to be a wet, chilly sort of spring. Every time she went aboveground, there were puddles everywhere of slushy snow, mud and grime coating the sidewalk. The cold permeated the house, and the heating system was fighting a losing battle. More often than not, she was chilly.

To make matters worse, she knew that the temperature was doing nothing to help Erik get better. It had been over a week since she had returned, and he was still ill and fatigued. She was caring for him as best she could, keeping things clean and tidy, but the sickness persisted. He didn't seem perturbed about it, so she tried to follow his lead, but…she did worry.

He spent a lot of his time sleeping, which was hard for her but probably good for him. Now that she was back, she wanted to be near him and talk to him and see hear him play or sing, but he still hadn't touched an instrument. She had to be patient, she knew. Pushing him too hard would only make him regress in his recovery.

That was how it had been the day she had returned. He had shouted at her, had demanded to know why she was there, and that anger followed by the emotional embrace had drained him completely. They hadn't really discussed her being back or their relationship yet. It had been put on hold until he was better, but sometimes she felt him watching her, and her skin would prickle—he was watching her with suspicion, as if he didn't really believe she was there or he thought that she was just playing with him and would leave at any moment. It saddened her and only deepened her resolve: she was staying.

There were still so many things to talk about. She had so many questions and so many concerns, but she simply needed to be patient. Hopefully, everything would come to place soon.

After putting some things in the oven to keep them warm, she went back out into the front room, unable to resist grinning a bit. He usually fell asleep in his chair, because he wanted to give the impression that he was fine and was perfectly capable of being in the front room and not cooped up in bed. However, as the minutes and hours wore on, more often than not he would nod for a few minutes and then fall into a deep sleep. And she would let him rest for however long he needed to.

He had several piles of books around his legs, and she picked them up, returning them to the shelves. Many of her books were there as well. A migration of her things had started, and most of her clothes, music, and other personal items were scattered throughout the house. She hadn't spent one night in her old apartment since coming down, though she had made many trips there to bring necessities down here. In fact, she was hoping to sell it soon. She had also quit her job—they had not been impressed with her, but taking care of Erik had turned into a twenty-four hour thing, and she didn't regret leaving that boring, thankless desk for an instant.

A book fell from her full arms and landed on the floor with a dull _thump_, and she looked over toward Erik hurriedly, hoping that it wouldn't wake him. His face scrunched up in annoyance, which did nothing to help his features, and he woke.

She noticed his face less and less with the passing days. Of course it would always be there—horrible and ugly—but as she became accustomed to it, there was less there to scare her. She was still holding onto his mask. She hadn't told him about it, and he had never brought it up. Maybe he didn't know Nadir Khan had given it to her. But she didn't want him to have it back just yet. He would undoubtedly put it right on as a way to hide from her, and she couldn't stand that thought, not when she was learning so much. One day soon, she would have to give it back to him, but she was selfish and wanted this type of situation too much.

"Sorry!" she said quietly, grabbing the fallen book and shoving it onto the shelf. "Sorry. I was trying to be quiet."

"Give me that one," he said, pointing. "There. That Russian one."

She put the rest back and brought over his requested book. He took it, and she re-tucked the blanket around his lap.

Instantly, he squirmed. "You are smothering me."

"It's cold down here," she said, ignoring his attempts to get the blanket off. "And you're sick."

She picked up the cup of cold, untouched tea that sat to the side of him and resisted sighing a little. True to his usual self, he was reluctant to eat much, which only made her frustrated, as he needed a full diet to get healthy. She could sense him watching her as she walked to the kitchen to put away the cup, and she could tell it was that shrewd, calculating look that he so often gave her lately. It annoyed her. He still didn't believe her, not even after weeks of caring for him and weathering his mean sarcasm and biting her tongue when he snapped at her. Had she not proved herself to him? She came back. She had the ring. She hadn't married Raoul. It was more than Erik had expected, but he was stubbornly clinging to some sort of snooty, bitter suspicion.

Well…that was probably to be expected, she reasoned with herself, washing out the cup. Erik had had a trouble past, and it was undoubtedly filled with betrayal.

_Look what happened with that professor he had liked, _she thought sadly to herself. _And Nadir Khan._

She wanted to be different to him—not be on his list of people who had hurt him. She wanted to be everything he had ever wanted in a person—trusting and kind and caring and compassionate.

"It's only been a couple weeks," she murmured to herself, checking the oven to make sure the food wasn't burning. She had to be patient and let him realize on his own that she really was staying. Years of hurt couldn't be forgotten with a few weeks of her being his nurse.

The door opened, and she frowned, hurrying out to the front room, wondering why in the world Erik would get up and venture out. But he was still in his chair. Nadir Khan was there, his coat dripping all over the floor. Erik's hand quickly went to his face.

Before he even had a chance to speak, Christine said coldly, "Hello. Is there something you need?"

Nadir Khan looked back, appearing equally-irritable. It was probably natural—it wasn't as if they had parted on the best terms.

"I'm back to check up on Erik," he said shortly. Then she felt guilty immediately for her frosty attitude—in all likelihood, Nadir Khan had been the only person keeping Erik alive for those long months. She sat down on the sofa and glanced toward Erik, who was looking at Mr. Khan through the gaps in his long, spindly fingers.

Reaching into his pocket, Mr. Khan pulled out another bottle of pills and handed them over.

"Those are the last ones," he said. "I can't get you anymore."

Erik grunted. "I should not have any more at any rate. I will not want to get rid of them."

Mr. Khan nodded. There was silence for a few moments, and Christine looked between the two of them before sitting on the couch near Erik. She reached over and put a hand on his forearm.

"I have some chicken in the oven," she said quietly. "I can get some for you while you talk. And—and Mr. Khan, if he wants some…" She glanced at him. It was only polite to offer, and even though she still felt that lingering resentment and bitterness, perhaps it was best to let it go. Erik was alive, and Mr. Khan had kept him alive, and he had provided Erik with medicine that she wouldn't have been able to. So…maybe having him around was a good thing. Maybe. She wasn't sure anymore. Her views on Mr. Khan had changed so rapidly, so quickly…she didn't know what to think.

"No, I should probably—probably be on my way…" Mr. Khan said, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Oh, eat it, for pity's sake," Erik said, glaring from behind his bony hand. "I think she might cry if one more meal of hers is wasted."

She stood, and Mr. Khan nodded, though he still appeared apprehensive.

"We can eat in the dining room, I guess," she said hesitantly, unused to playing hostess. "I'll go dish some up. Erik, do you want…?"

"I am going back to the bedroom," he said, and he stood as well, gripping the back of the chair for support. It made her heart sink slightly to see him go—she wanted him to stay. She always wanted him to stay.

Still, not wanting him to go hungry, she resolutely dished up a plate and marched to the bedroom, knocking and the opening the door carefully, He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the opposite wall, and the outline of his bony shoulder blades could be seen through his white shirt. She approached him and put the plate on the bedside table.

"Here," she said quietly. "If you want it." Then, before he could protest, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a quick hug before leaving.

Mr. Khan had brought in a chair from the front room, and she set a plate in front of him as well, her heart pounding a little harder than normal. She sat down across from him and poked at her food for a while, her appetite gone when just a few minutes ago she had been feeling hungry.

"Well…" she said after a while of silence. "I—I'm still here."

Mr. Khan merely raised an eyebrow, and she knew he was probably thinking something along the lines of '_For now_.' But he didn't reply and continued to eat.

"There's plenty more if you want any," she said, gesturing over to the kitchen. "I mean, there's always food left. It's not like he eats much—I feed him whenever I can—and I know that he'll probably never look…look, you know, normal, but it's good that he eats what he does.

"There are cookies," she continued after a few more minutes. "I made them yesterday. He didn't eat any, of course, but you can have them after if you want."

Mr. Khan looked tired. Maybe he was tired of being involved in this whole thing. She knew that she would be—he had tried to clean up so much of what he thought was his mistake and his mess, and nothing had really worked out the way he had intended. She wouldn't be surprised if one day he simply disappeared—maybe to a different country, to forget them and enjoy his remaining years.

"Mr. Khan," she then said, feeling her pride crumble and her indignant feelings sort of slither away. "I'm—sorry for being so rude to you. I really am. It's just so hard to…to understand this all, y'know? You're back here, and you're talking to Erik, and…I mean, you _shot _him."

"Ah, well, he's broken my nose twice now," Mr. Khan said, and she actually laughed, and it was a wonderful feeling. The tension in this house had been straining her for days; to have a break from it felt good.

"I just didn't think I'd ever see you again," Christine said honestly. The humor had eased her up, and she felt more open than she had for weeks—she almost felt like her old self. "It was really hard for me, to think for almost six months that…yeah. And then I come down here and you're here again, and you have _medicine _for him, on top of all things…"

"I don't expect you to understand this relationship," Mr. Khan said, and he, too, looked a little more at ease. "Sometimes I don't think I do myself. I just—I still stand by what I said earlier: I did what I had to do. I had to get you out."

She sighed. "Yeah. Poor Erik...I wish he hadn't been so scared. Maybe if he would've asked me instead of trying to force me…"

"You would have said yes?" Mr. Khan said sharply, looking at her intently.

"I—well—I don't know!" she said, feeling flustered. "I'm not sure what I would've done. It was all so sudden."

"I am sure we all could have done things differently," Mr. Khan said. "Nobody ever behaves perfectly in those critical situations."

"You don't have to tell me," she muttered, going back to her meal. That seemed to be her whole life—one huge mistake or blunder after another.

They ate for a while, and she was pleased when he didn't refuse another helping. If only he was Erik, sitting with her and eating the food she had made just for him…talking to her frankly and openly…

She looked at Mr. Khan and gathered some of her courage.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

He nodded, and she tapped a finger on the table for a few moments.

"I haven't asked Erik yet," she said, unsure of where to start. "And I know you said that you think there are some things he should tell me, but I just wanted to know. I need to. You didn't really give me an answer last time." She shoveled in a few bites, trying to get the words to form in the right way. "When Raoul told me…about Erik going to prison…and why…"

Mr. Khan looked troubled immediately. "Christine, that's a very…unpleasant time in Erik's life. I don't think he'd want me discussing it with you."

"You already have," she insisted. "You told me about his drugs and how you two worked together."

"That's the surface of it all," he said. "And what if I tell you all the gory details? Would you leave?"

She paused. She already had to deal with Erik's murders…the rape of a woman was something she wasn't sure she could forgive so easily. Maybe it was because she was a woman, but the thought of being hurt like that and unable to defend herself—it was more frightening than hardly anything else she could imagine.

"I warned you that you wouldn't be able to handle it all," Mr. Khan said. "I told you to leave that first day. He's just going to start hoping again the longer you stay."

She clutched her fork tightly. "You haven't told me anything yet," she said, keeping her voice firm. "I want to stay, but I can't stand that thought. It's been haunting me for months. I can't wait any longer. I have to know."

Mr. Khan set his fork aside, leaning back in the chair. In the silence, she strained to listen if Erik was up and moving about, but all was silent. He had probably fallen asleep again. She hoped he had at least eaten a few bites.

When she looked back, she saw that Mr. Khan had closed his eyes, and she waited quietly for him to gather his thoughts and finish contemplating whatever was swirling around in his mind. At last, he sighed a little and looked at her, his eyes sad.

"Erik was in Iran for several years. There is always tension and turmoil in my country, so he was more than welcome when he arrived. He was young and had no family to claim him, which was even better. He was a prodigy at everything—and we exploited him as much as we were able to. He designed weapons, mostly…"

He paused for a moment, and Christine shifted uneasily.

"Everything was completely fine for a couple years," Mr. Khan continued, a deep line appearing between his brows. "Erik was good at what he did—I think he could do whatever he wanted if he set his mind to it. He was much more stable then, too, if you would believe it. He made me laugh a lot. But then things got out of hand." He paused again for a very long while, staring at the wall and apparently thinking deeply. Christine let him sit in silence until she began to squirm with impatience, and then she asked,

"Mr. Khan? What happened?"

The wrinkles in his face were shadowed with guilt. "Because of what he worked on, Erik was in contact with a lot of military personnel, and there was a man. A high-ranking official…a general of some type. And he had a wife. She was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Everyone knew it, and this man was so proud of the fact that he was married to her. She had a…peculiar relationship with Erik. I'm sure she was commanded to stay away from him, but she was never punished for disobeying. Her husband was too blinded by her—he worshiped the ground she walked on."

Mr. Khan looked at her seriously. "I know you can't understand this all. It's a different world over there, especially in that dangerous circle. It was well-known that she slept around with other men, but her husband turned a blind eye, maybe because he was unwilling to divorce her or punish her, since adultery is strictly forbidden in our religion." He paused again. "And Erik…_Erik_. I was there one day, I saw how she interacted with him. She tried to flirt with him—she tried to excite him in any way she could, by whispers or touches…He never gave any type of visible response. And then one night…" He trailed off, his expression grim. "Apparently the woman ran out of her bedroom one night, screaming hysterically that the heathen _monster _had broken into her room and had raped her. Her husband had a decent amount of power, and so it wasn't very hard for him to arrange a quick murder in a matter of hours."

Christine's hands were pressed against her mouth. She took in a few breaths and forced herself to ask the question:

"Mr. Khan…Did—did…?" She couldn't finish the words.

He understood. "I don't know." Her heart clenched. Again, she repeated that mantra that had run through her mind for the past six months. _He didn't. He didn't. He didn't. He wouldn't…_

"I heard what was happening," Mr. Khan continued, "and I persuaded the general to throw Erik in prison instead. I told him that it would bring him more satisfaction to see Erik suffer than to simply shoot him between the eyes and be done with it. I don't know if that was the right thing to do." Mr. Khan rubbed his forehead. "Maybe it would have been better if Erik had simply been shot."

"But…" Christine said, her voice trembling. "No! No, it wouldn't have been! You saved his life, Mr. Khan."

"Did I?" he said, a humorless smile on his mouth. "Erik was in prison for three years before we managed to implement our escape plan. I ruined him by having him put in that prison. I've never asked what happened to him. I don't want to know. I feel like I created a monster and then set him loose on the world."

"Don't say that!" she said. "You saved his life, you—you helped him escape! What happened wasn't your fault. You saved him."

Nadir Khan was silent, and Christine hurriedly wiped away a few stinging tears.

"He didn't," she said softly, not necessarily speaking to Mr. Khan. "I know he didn't. He wouldn't hurt someone like that. I know he's done bad things, but he wouldn't do that."

"I didn't think so either, until you appeared. He was different about you, and it made me think that perhaps this sort of thing has happened before, but…I don't know. This is all my own thinking. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all…" He picked his fork up again and began to finish clearing his plate, an unspoken signal that this part of their conversation was over.

She sat there for a while, contemplating and thinking. He wouldn't—she knew he wouldn't. Knowing the circumstances hadn't changed her opinion. How could he when he always reacted so strongly to holding hands or embraces? And if he had…then who was to say he wouldn't feel guilty doing it again? He had had ample opportunities with her, yet he had always been so respectful of her space and physicality, going so far as to give her his own bed to sleep in.

But…he had been the Phantom. She remembered her first encounter with him. He had threatened to kill her. He was not above violence…and yet…this seemed so much worse than that. Still, her hoping and her heart won out, and she refused to believe it until Erik told her otherwise.

When Mr. Khan was finished, he stood and thanked her—somewhat warmly—for the meal before excusing himself.

"I will try to come down again in a couple weeks," he said in the front room, pulling on his coat. "If there is anything you need…anything, Erik will be able to get into contact with me."

She nodded. "Thanks. And—and thank you for telling me."

He nodded and left, and the opened door let in a chilly little blast of cold air. She shivered and rubbed her arms. Summer couldn't come soon enough.

He wasn't sleeping when she went back to the bedroom, still sitting on the bed, and she looked to see that his food had been touched…maybe not eaten, perhaps mostly just played with, but it gave her a little burst of happiness to see. She sat beside him and looked up.

Sometimes, when he was particularly irritable, he made every effort to hide his face from her. He was talented at tilting it just right so that it would be hidden from her. However, most of the time she had the impression that he was simply too tired to care anymore—and for that, she was glad.

"Hey—Erik?" she said, trying to stir up conversation. He was up and coherent; she wanted to talk to him. "Those pills Mr. Khan gives you. He said they're pain medication. Are you—I mean, still hurting…? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"The medication helps me sleep," he said, his tone blunt and short. She nodded in understanding, watching him for a minute and then looking down, not wanting him to think she was staring.

"I heard your conversation," he said, and he was looking straight at her. "I know what you are wondering."

She shook her head. There was no use arguing about what she had been talking to Mr. Khan about, so she said, "I know—I know you didn't."

"You cannot _know _that."

"I guess I can't," she admitted. "But you…I don't think you would."

They were silent for a long while, and she twisted a few curls around her fingers. Finally, when she couldn't take it anymore, she looked up at him.

"Erik—"

"No," he interrupted. "I would…No. I never touched that woman."

Although she hadn't thought he did before, she couldn't help a huge wave of relief wash through her. It swept away months and months of questions and guilt and worry and anxiety, leaving her feeling cleaner and happier than before. She tried hard not to let it show on her face.

"I knew it," she said simply. This confession, this revelation, left her feeling calmer than she had in weeks.

"Erik?" she said hesitantly. "Why would...why would that woman say those things? Why would she lie like that?"

He looked away. "I've no idea," he said shortly. "Perhaps she merely wanted to see a heathen monster murdered."

She shivered. "You're not a heathen monster. And I'm so sorry for what happened to you."

Carefully, she wrapped an arm around his and put her head on his bony shoulder. He tensed at the touch though he did not push her away. Christine wondered if the scars were from the prison...the thought made her sick.

"Erik?" she said again.

"What?"

"Can we talk for a minute?" she murmured. "I know things have been…well, different. Hard. I've done a lot of things I shouldn't, and…" This was suddenly turning out to be so much more difficult than she had expected. She hadn't really had these types of conversations with Raoul. Whenever they had happened, they usually turned out for the worst. She remembered the argument they had had around Valentine's Day last year. Talking to Erik about her relationship with him was not something she was exactly used to, and she was having a hard time finding the courage and the right words. However, she had a feeling that complete honesty would be best here, and so she gathered her thoughts, her face already growing a little warm.

"It's been hard for me," she said. "These months. Without you. And maybe it was good that I was alone for a little while—I think it was. I think I needed to get away from everyone and just be with myself. You guys always took care of me—Dad and Raoul and you…so being alone helped me. But I didn't like it." She held onto him tighter, and he twitched a little, unused to all this physical contact.

"I was being honest," she said. "I know you still don't believe me, but I want to stay with you. If—if you still want me, I'm here. We've both made a lot of mistakes, I think. And I'm not going to be perfect." She ran her hand up and down his arm a few times, wanting him to relax, wanting the tension to leave him. "But I just…when I thought you were…but you're here now, and…" She gave an embarrassed little laugh. "I'm not doing a very good job at this."

His fingers briefly skimmed over the gold band on her finger and then—slowly and hesitantly—they reached out toward her. Maybe he was testing her. Maybe he just wanted to. But she let him, and his hand carefully brushed over her curls, more of an awkward touch than a stroke.

The pressure made her heart skip and her smile widen. That was a good sign—the touching. When Erik initiated touch, she was aware of how nervous he was, like he was afraid she would push his hand away or avoid his skin. It had probably happened before.

"You're here now," she repeated.

And she sat there, an arm wrapped around his, her head resting against his shoulder, sitting quietly in the chilly room, listening to him breathe and content to do so.


	45. Chapter 45

A sharp pain woke her, and she muffled a small yelp as she opened her eyes. It was dark in the room, chilly and silent, but she was warm under the blanket. Carefully, she adjusted herself. Erik had just accidentally elbowed her in the chest—hard, and she grimaced a little, wrapping an arm around herself. It wasn't his fault, so she wasn't mad, yet she couldn't help but give a few pitiful whimpers of hurt, half-heartedly hoping that they would wake him up, and he would ask what was wrong, and she would tell him.

Still, he slept on, unknowing of her injury, and she sighed, beginning to become sleepy again as the pain receded. They had fallen asleep on the couch. It was the first time such a thing had happened, and she was more reluctant to have Erik wake up and leave than she wanted him to apologize. So she stopped sniffling and leaned against him, all of her silly hurt feelings going away as she felt his thin arm underneath her cheek.

He was not accustomed to consistent and affectionate physical contact, so she was going very slowly with him. She started out with sitting next to him. Then she would hold his hand. She wanted him to become comfortable with it all. Those few embraces they had had had made him tense and edgy. She wanted him to know that he could touch her. And tonight, she had pulled out a blanket and had spread it over both of them, as the last bit of the cold spring was sweeping through the underground house one more time. As the night had worn on, she had nodded off and had fallen asleep. And so had he.

She pulled the blanket up to her shoulder and snuggled closer to him, letting her eyes slip close. Still warm and sleepy, she managed to find a comfortable position, and she wrapped an arm around him before letting herself drift off into sleep once more.

She dreamed of Sweden again—the green hills and the blue sky, and there was music there as well, violin music that seemed to be carried on the wind, filling her up. It had been so long since she had heard such music, and it seemed to press a soothing balm to the hurting wounds in her soul. But this time it wasn't her father's violin music.

"Christine."

She woke again with a surprised little grunt, blinking sleepily, her cheek pressed against something cold and bony.

"Hmm?" she managed to say.

"You are crushing my arm."

Yawning, she pushed herself up and felt something slide out from underneath her. In the dim light, she could see Erik flexing his long fingers.

"Sorry," she said, rubbing her eyes. "I didn't mean to." She stumbled off the couch and stretched, her back a little achy from being curled up all night. Then she glanced back at him and said, "Want some breakfast? I'm hungry." Without waiting for him to answer (because she knew the answer), she walked across the room. However, before she got to the kitchen, her foot hit something solid.

"Ouch!" she said loudly, holding her foot up. "Ow. Stupid box. I need to move these. Yeah. I'll do that today. I'm sorry. They're everywhere."

The front room was scattered with boxes of her possessions. She had at last sold the contract to her apartment, but it was not without a discussion with Erik. Christine had realized that he had never even said out loud that he wanted her to stay. In fact, there were several things he hadn't said out loud.

She had wanted to hear it from him, so one night she had sat by him and tried to talk to him openly and frankly.

"I don't want to be down here if you don't want me," she had said, putting a careful hand on his bony knee. His gaze had rested on the ring on her finger.

"Yes…You will stay."

With a little smile, she shook her head. "I want to hear you ask me so I can say yes."

He had glared at her, his awful face twisted up into a sour sneer. "You will stay here, like you said."

"Ask me," she had repeated stubbornly. She didn't want it to be a command or an order. She wanted him to ask her a real, genuine question about what _she _wanted. Maybe it was silly or childish…but she had gone so long with him ordering her, controlling her life and her decisions. She wanted him to ask her to do it.

After a few minutes, he let his head hang a little and had then said quietly, "Would you please stay here with a monster?"

She had hugged him tightly, trying to ignore it when he flinched a little. "You're not a monster. And I'll stay. Thank you."

So her things had been moved down, and she hadn't yet found a place for everything. Carefully, she maneuvered her way through the rest and made it into the kitchen.

As she fried some eggs, she wondered vaguely if she would have to go shopping in the next few days. Probably…they were out of sugar and almost out of bread. It had become easier to go through the tunnels, as Erik had provided a flashlight, but it didn't make it any less scary. She wished he would go with her—but he still didn't have his mask.

With a little gulp, she thought that perhaps today would have to be the day. He wanted to get out. She could tell. His pneumonia had finally gone, and she sensed that he was beginning to become restless down here. But she had selfishly enjoyed having him to herself. Maybe she was as bad as he—she had trapped him down here with her.

Dishing up a plate, she tried to think of a good way to give it back to him. But nothing came. So, in the end, she grabbed it from one of her bags where she had been hiding it and carried it out to him.

He was off of the couch and was standing by one of the boxes, a violin in his hands. Her stomach lurched slightly. It was her father's. She was going to give it to Erik, but she wasn't quite sure how just yet. So she had packed it away.

"Oh," she said simply. He glanced at her and then quickly set it down, like a small child being caught.

"I shouldn't have," he said simply, stepping away. His limp was still there; not as bad, but still present.

"No—no. It's fine. It's…it needs to be played. He wouldn't mind." Feeling a little odd, she approached and held out the plate and the mask. When he saw it, he was by her alarmingly-quickly and yanked it out of her hands.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"Nadir Khan gave it to me," she said quietly.

It saddened her to see him tie it back on. As soon as it was secure, he drew himself up, looking menacing and confident once more.

"You don't have to wear it, you know," she said, trying to hand him the plate, which he steadfastly ignored.

"What makes you say that? Have you enjoyed gawking at me?" he snapped.

She set the plate aside and sat down on the sofa, staring moodily at her own breakfast. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that," she said, grumpy that the morning had already turned so sour when last night had been warm and comfortable.

"Why else would you hide it from me for so long?" he said, pressing his fingers against the cheek, as if to ensure that it was still there.

"Because I knew you'd be like this as soon as you had it," she shot back, grabbing her plate and heading back to the kitchen. "I like you better without it."

She ate her breakfast by herself, stabbing at her eggs with a particular anger. Why did he have to be such a jerk to her? Couldn't he tell that she was trying? It wasn't as if she had experience dealing with disfigured, angry men. The two other men in her life had been calm and patient and loving and very handsome.

With a little sigh, she pushed her hair behind her ears and rubbed her eyes. No. She knew from the start how difficult this would be and how much patience she would have to have. Erik needed time to accept her in his life, and he didn't know how to deal with her as well. They were still becoming used to each other. Even though they had lived together before, it had been under different circumstances, and she hadn't wanted to stay. They had to build back their relationship, and it wasn't going to be easy.

She cleaned up her plate and then went back out into the front room. Erik was sitting at the piano bench, and her heart leapt a little at the familiar sight. However, he wasn't playing. He was simply sitting there, staring at the keys. She went up to him.

"I'm sorry for what I said," she said. "And I'm sorry for keeping your mask from you. I shouldn't have done that." When he didn't reply, she put a hand on his shoulder, hoping he wouldn't shrug it off. "Are you still mad at me? I'm really sorry. I just…I liked having you here. I thought that if you had it back, you'd…I dunno. Go out all the time and leave me here alone. I guess I'm selfish that way. I hope you can forgive me."

"You do not need to be forgiven for anything," he said at last. "You are here…you came back…That is more than I had ever dreamed."

Relief spread through her, and she smiled a bit and then sat down next to him on the bench—there was a lot of room because of his physique. She put an arm around his narrow waist and leaned against him, watching the piano keys with him.

"I've forgotten most of what you taught me," she said, putting her other hand on the white keys. "Remember how bad I was?" She plunked down a key that was nestled in between two black ones.

"You were adequate enough," he said.

They sat there for a little while longer, and she waited hopefully, but he made no move to put his arm around her as well. Maybe she was wrong—he just didn't want to touch her at all.

The piano gleamed, but she still hadn't heard him play anything yet. She missed his music with a sharp sort of ache in her chest.

"What did you do while I was gone?" she then asked, trying to draw a conversation out of him.

"Nothing worthwhile," he said. "Nothing you would like to hear."

She paused, her heart beginning to hammer. "Did you…kill people?"

"No."

That was good. She felt she could deal with anything else. With a little jolt, she realized he hadn't killed anyone in over a year. Did he realize that as well?

"Did you do drugs?"

He paused. "Yes."

It hurt her more than she thought it would. Hadn't he said that he had been stupid when he had done them before? She hadn't thought he would revert to that. But…still. He hadn't hurt anyone else except himself. Maybe she should just count herself lucky that he hadn't reverted to anything else…like murder or kidnap or arson.

"I'm sorry you did," she said quietly. "I wish you hadn't."

"It was only a few times," he said. "What happened wasn't very…pleasant. I'm much too old for that now."

The last comment made her laugh. "You're not old," she said, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. She wasn't surprised in his reaction—he shifted uncomfortably.

"This doesn't bother you, does it?" she asked then, her mouth a little dry. "Me touching you? I'm sorry if it does. I'm—I know I touch you a lot. But it's like I haven't seen you for almost six months, so I'm—I guess I'm a little excited." Her cheeks burned. "But you don't really ever touch me, and I know you said you don't like it when people touch you, so…if it bothers you, just tell me."

"No—I…" He was struggling for words, and he looked away from her and toward the wall. "I hardly know how," he said after a moment. "I've never touched a woman before."

The answer was so sweet and so surprising that she grinned. "It's easy," she said, carefully taking his arm. "I like holding hands or having your arm around me—like this. And I like it when people play with my hair or rub my back. You could even put your hand on my leg—that's fine. Or—or anywhere else you want to put it, really." She needed to tell him that, because she had a feeling that if she didn't, he would limit himself to the places she had listed; all the respectable places, in short. And maybe she should have been embarrassed or ashamed, but she was excited to have their physical relationship progress as well as their emotional one.

Over the next few weeks, he experimented with touching her. She never, ever pushed him away or gave any sign that she didn't enjoy what he was doing. It was awkward at first, as everything was with him. He was more often than not too rough, and his movements were mechanical and jerky. He had a hard time approaching her in the beginning, too. He only seemed to be able to touch her when she went to deliberately sit next to him and wait.

It took time, but he was smart and a very fast learner. All of it was worth it when he would stroke her hair or carefully press a cold hand over hers. During times like that, she felt ashamed for ever having doubted his innocence in Iran. She had a suspicion that if she brought up the idea between the two of them, he would have a stroke or heart attack. She would just have to be patient and let him learn at his own pace—allow him to grow comfortable with what he was doing before introducing something else.

With his mask back, he did take to leaving, but he never left for more than a couple hours, and she felt sheepish for before, when she had wanted him to stay down there. _She _left several times a week to make trips to the store or run other errands. It wasn't fair for Erik to stay stuck down there. And sometimes he brought her presents, which she always accepted with shameless glee, wanting him to know how much she loved that sort of thing.

On one night, they were sitting on the couch together. Erik had played his violin for the first time in months—a concert for her. When she had asked, he had appeared a little hesitant, but he had obliged. Christine had sat on the couch, enraptured, watching him play. The music was such a factor in their relationship, and that night was proof. It seemed to soothe away so many unspoken hurts and worries and concerns, and afterward, he sat with an arm around her, and she put her head on his shoulder, feeling at peace with herself and with him and with the world.

The mask drew her attention after a while, and she looked at it on him for a few moments. She couldn't count how many nights she had sat staring at it during those long winter months, wondering and wishing so many things. Oftentimes her mind would drift to those first times she had held his hand; the first times she had felt that excited, hopeful longing in her heart.

"Can I ask you something?" she said softly at length.

"Yes," he said.

"Remember that time we were in the car, and you said that you didn't have a mom? What did you mean by that?" She didn't miss the way he tensed a little. "I want to know about your childhood," she continued. "I really do. We're so close now. I think it's time for you to tell me."

The discomfort in his posture grew when she said the last sentence, and he shifted. A silence stretched on for a while.

"My childhood was not pleasant," he said abruptly. "It would…abhor you. I am already disgusting. Perhaps it would be better if you invented a story of your own."

She frowned deeply. "Erik, I'm not going to blame you or think badly of you because of a bad childhood. Those things can't be helped. And you're _not_ disgusting. At all."

"When you hear, you will not be able to forget. You'll look at me, and all you will see is my repulsive origins."

"You know that's not true," she said. "I know so much about you already—so many bad things that I wish you hadn't done, but I'm still here. I just really want you to be honest with me. I want you to trust me like I trust you."

Another moment passed in silence. Then he roughly said, "You promised to stay."

"I know. I will."

When he didn't speak, she was afraid that he was going to refuse further, but before she could ask him, he then said, "I was born in Paris."

She couldn't resist smiling a little. "Okay," she said, relaxing into his embrace again. "That's good. A start. Keep going."

For a moment, he seemed to struggle with what to say next, and then he said slowly, "Are you convinced that you want—?"

"_Yes_," she interrupted. "I do."

He touched her ring, as if to reassure himself that she was still there with him. "I was born in Paris," he repeated. "The Berlin Wall and the fall of the Soviet Union happened when I was an adolescent, so I am…a much older man than you."

Her smile grew. "I know. That's fine. Keep going."

"I…" He trailed off again, sounding frustrated. "This is ridiculous, you know? I hardly know what to tell you…where to begin. It is not a story worth repeating."

Christine knew that that couldn't be further from the truth. He was about to tell her of his _childhood _—what events and people had shaped him and made him…who he was. She was anxious, curious.

"Well, maybe I could ask you questions instead," she suggested. "That way I can know everything I'd like to."

He paused. Then—"Yes. That would be acceptable."

"And you won't lie to me?"

A soft, tired-sounding chuckle came from him. "Unfortunately, no."

Playing with the buttons of his shirt, she gave herself a few moments to think and try to decide what to begin with, and at last she said, "Who was the woman who…had you?"

"Her name was Nadezhda Reshetnikov."

"Wow. That's a mouthful," she said, laughing a little and trying to ease some of the tension between them. "But that's Russian, isn't it? You said you were born in Paris."

"Yes, I was. She was Russian, born in a poverty-stricken suburb of Moscow."

"Did she marry a Frenchman? Or did she move there?"

"She was around fifteen or sixteen when she arrived in Paris, though it was not a voluntary relocation. I believe the civilized world has a delightful term for it…What is it…? Oh yes. You call it Human Trafficking."

Her heart clenched up a little, and she sat up to be able to look at him. He looked a little too calm, and his mouth quirked oddly when he saw her watching him.

"Yes, poor girl," Erik said, sounding relaxed about the fact that the woman who bore him had been forcibly taken from her home. "She was smuggled across Europe and deposited in Paris to take up a life of drugs and prostitution. I learned all this after, you know—many years after her death. I knew nothing of this when I was a child."

"Didn't her…her parents try to find her?" Christine asked, suddenly finding her tongue thick and heavy. "I mean, she just disappeared. Didn't they talk to the police?"

He actually laughed at that. "My poor, dear, naïve little Christine," he said. "Not everyone is blessed with devoted, loyal parents. I am sure they were rather glad to be rid of her: one less mouth to feed and all that. You, having grown up as the sole object of affection for your parents, would never understand such a thing."

"You're right," she admitted. "I…I don't. I don't understand."

"And you should count yourself lucky," he said.

A few moments passed in silence, and Christine wondered if he wanted this time to think and compose himself. She watched him, but he soon gave her an expectant look, and she continued her questions.

"So…did your mo—I mean, that woman. Did she end up marrying someone?"

He looked at her, and his gaze was almost incredulous.

"You are delightful," he said simply.

"Oh," she said, confused.

To her surprise, a gentle, pitying look came into his eyes. "No. She never married."

"But…So who's your father?" She realized her mistake in the terminology, but she didn't have another word for it. _Who was the man who impregnated the woman who birthed you but was not your mother?_

"I do not know. There's no way of knowing." He shifted again. "But you still do not understand. You could not. You. You sit there, so innocent and perfect…You cannot even fathom this world, this world of money and sex and violence and drugs. Yet I was born in it, raised in it. I breathed it all in for years, and I thought that that was the natural way of the world. And it _was_…Until I found you."

During his soft speech, she had felt a little bashful and embarrassed about his proclamations of her 'innocence.' Erik reached out a careful hand and gently took a few of her curls and wrapped them around his fingers. He stroked them with his thumb, his eyes focused on his task.

"Well, help me understand," she said, not making a move to pull away.

"But you are so beautifully simple," he said. "I'm reluctant at the thought of sullying you."

"Don't be silly," she said. "I'm not some stupid little airhead, Erik. Even if you don't believe me, I _do _know some…things. You can tell me. I want to know."

"You already know more than I've ever wanted you to," he said, and he at last drew his hand away, fixing her with another look. "Yet we've come this far, I suppose, and you look very lovely when you're curious, so I'll indulge you a while longer."

"Well, I'm flattered," she snipped sarcastically. It took her a moment to get over his words, which she took as an insult. 'Beautiful' was one thing, but 'beautifully simple' was another. But after a deep breath or two, she felt calm enough to continue their conversation. "Please tell me more."

"Let me paint you a dirty, unpleasant picture," Erik said. "The girls that are put into these situations are nothing more than objects. They are assigned a small, filthy, cramped room that they hardly ever leave. Men are sent up whenever they arrive, and so one girl could…_entertain _a dozen different men throughout the day. Money is given to the group of men who own the business, and they in turn give the girls enough drugs, food, and other such necessities to keep them alive…in a way."

The thought was horrible. Christine had to stop herself from putting a hand over her mouth.

"You were…born in a place like that?" she whispered.

"I am not quite sure where I was born," he said. "Usually unwanted pregnancies are quickly and unquestionably disposed of, and yet this girl was able to somehow carry me full-term and birth me somewhere. I have a suspicion that she somehow escaped her…establishment after she discovered her pregnancy, as such heavy drug use would have killed any fetus. I have no solid proof, but it seems logical that she would have borne me and then begun a career as an independent prostitute. She took up a cheap room and hid me there."

Christine was feeling worse than ever. How could he have survived such an environment? How could a poor, innocent little baby have been raised in a place like that?

"I don't know why she was inclined to keep me," he said, and he sounded so impersonal that Christine wanted to cry. "If she had been merciful or had had any common sense, she would have thrown me into a dumpster and left me to freeze to death, especially considering…" He trailed off, and she knew he was talking about his face. "Well, in the end she kept me. I was put in a small closet, and I spent my childhood there."

"You lived in a closet?" Christine whispered.

"Of course. Where else was she to keep me when her clients came? Under the bed? Ah. You pity me. Or you are disgusted."

"No!" she said quickly. "I'm just so…sad. I can't believe that."

"What did you expect?" he said, somewhat forcefully. "I told you it was repulsive. And yet you insisted on hearing it."

"I know—I know. And I'm glad." She wrapped her arms around him, not letting him pull away when she felt him try. "I don't want to make you upset." Her voice was muffled slightly by his collar. "But I'm happy you're telling me." Trying to be discreet, she used the opportunity to dry her teary eyes as best she could with his shirt. She hoped he thought she was simply nuzzling his neck.

With a small breath, she felt ready to hear more. "How long were you there?"

"I have no idea," he said. "Six—maybe seven years. No more than ten, I'm sure. It was harder to hide me when I became older. I was outgrowing the closet. Sometimes, when no one would interrupt, she would let me out and allow me to look out of the window. There wasn't much to see—just a dirty alleyway full of garbage…but it was very fascinating. You can't imagine how starved I was for interaction, fresh air, open spaces…" His voice became a little distant. "Art, books, music…I spoke Russian and very limited French—mostly things I heard from Madeleine's visitors."

"Madeleine?" she repeated, confused.

"Oh—yes," he said. "They gave her a French name early on. No Frenchman would have been able to say Nadezhda."

"I didn't know you were Russian," she commented.

"Yes—and it's anyone's guess as to what nationality my fraternal half is."

"Maybe Swedish," she said jokingly, grateful to be able to smile a little in spite of their heavy conversation.

To her pleasure, he laughed softly at that. They were quiet for a moment. It was still a little chilly in the house, though summer was beginning to break the cold.

She tried to warm herself by shifting closer to him. He wasn't exactly comfortable, all bones and no warm flesh, but his arms around her did feel nice, as well as his soft breathing that was ruffling her hair.

"Why did you leave?" she then asked.

"It is…unpleasant," he said. "You will be disgusted."

"I won't," she said firmly. But inside, she wavered. Would she?

He sighed, and she had the impression that he was bracing himself—whether to tell the story or to weather her reaction, she couldn't be sure.

"Prostitution is a dangerous profession," he said at length. "I'm sure Madeleine knew this, but I doubt she would have been able to do anything else, as her French was poor and her education minimal. Perhaps she never even thought that the world offered more than that room. She had been in France for ten or so years by now, and it was bound to happen."

She let him sit in almost a minute of silence until she squeezed his hand gently and murmured, "Erik?"

"There was an argument one night," he said. "Apparently a man hadn't paid her enough. It got violent quickly. He was…incoherent. Drunk and high, I'm sure. I couldn't help her. I was locked in the closet—but he heard me and opened the door after a few minutes. There was blood everywhere. He had used a loose floorboard."

Her stomach was rolling, and her eyes were shut tightly, her face buried in his neck.

"I had this horrid makeshift mask—just a piece of cloth with eyeholes—and he took it off. The sight seemed to enrage him. He nearly broke my jaw, but he did manage to crack a few ribs before I was able to get out."

She wanted to burst into tears and cling onto him and say _Poor Erik _over and over, but she knew he wouldn't appreciate it at all.

"And your mom?" she whispered tremulously. "I mean—Madeleine?"

He shook his head. "Dead, of course. Bludgeoned to death."

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"Why should you be?" he said. "It was over thirty years ago. There is no use in dwelling on such things."

"I know," she replied. "I just wish it had been different for you—you deserved a lot more."

"Probably not."

"You did," she insisted firmly. "I think you deserved everything."

"You would be the only one," he said facetiously.

"Then everyone else is stupid!" she said shortly, angrily. He paused for a moment, and then he laughed, loudly. She blushed and smiled nervously.

"Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have said that. That was mean."

For some reason, that made him laugh again, and even though she was pretty sure he was laughing at her, the fact was that he was laughing, and it warmed her more than anything. When he was finished, she gave a sheepish giggle and put her head back on his shoulder.

"Where did you go after that?" she asked.

His voice was now infused with a sort of gentleness, and it made her heart leap to her throat—she wondered if he would sing for her soon. "I wandered Paris for a while; a year, most likely, until I stumbled upon an old university. It had ideal hiding places, and I stayed there for years. It was the place I had dreamed about. There was art and books…and music there. I educated myself by listening in on lectures and spending nights in the library. But I was young and became restless, so I left Paris, made my way across Europe, and eventually found myself in Tehran. That is where I…met Nadir, as he told you."

Christine could instantly see through some of his story. There were probably a good five or six years of time he had skipped—'making his way across Europe'—but she was silent. There was so much time to hear those stories. Years. And she had pushed him far enough for today.

"Thank you," she said. "For the violin concert. And for telling me. It means a lot to me."

"You're not going to run screaming, are you?" he asked, and he was trying to be humorous, but he couldn't manage to suppress the slightest tremor in his voice that gave him away.

"No," she said instantly, tightening her grip on him. "I'll be here forever."

His hand covered hers, and she looked at the bare skin of it, the blue veins running like rivers across it. His fingers were bare, and she glanced at her left hand. Her stomach did a somersault as she looked at the ring. She was going to get a ring on his hand, too, and this time it would be done right. With a sigh, she closed her eyes. This was it, now. She could feel it, running through her veins, flowing into her heart and being pumped into every corner of her. Her ring lightly rubbed against his grayish skin. Questions and concerns didn't seem to have a place just now. It had taken her a year, but she had arrived, and he was with her, and she would tell him, no matter how scared she was, no matter how afraid she was of his reply. He needed to know. She loved him, and she wanted to marry him in a white dress with a bouquet of flowers.


	46. Chapter 46

**Just a sincere thank you to everyone who favorited, followed, and especially reviewed this story. All of the comments and suggestions meant so much to me! I'm super relieved that I was able to finish this story just before I leave, and I hope you guys enjoy this final chapter. Some people might comment and say that this ending seems abrupt, but there's no point in trying to drag out an ending when I could tie everything up in this chapter and actually give you an ending rather than drag it out and make you wait eighteen months.**

**I just want to thank everyone again for all of the nice things you guys have said about this story. I'm really glad you liked it. Another huge thanks to everyone who reviewed regularly. I hope you all have a fantastic year! Just really. Thanks so much for everything!**

* * *

Summer had finally come, warm and welcome, and the cold from the underground house had finally slipped away. Christine walked along the tunnels, her skin still tingling from the sunlight, her steps brisk but her heart a little heavy. She was a coward.

It had been a while since she had come to terms with her feelings, but she hadn't told Erik yet. She couldn't put it off forever. They were in some sort of bizarre limbo, and she wasn't sure that Erik was willing to take the first step forward. He didn't want to assume anything and get rejected. It was up to her, now, but she was held back by her girlish fear.

Besides her father, who didn't really count in this type of situation, she had never told a man she loved him. She'd never said that to Raoul. How was it done? Did she just walk up to him and say it? Did she plan something romantic and then tell him? She had been trying to wait for the right moment, but she wasn't sure what that moment was. And perhaps that was the clue to it—she was supposed to feel that moment and know it was the right one. So far it hadn't happened.

She clutched her groceries tightly and continued on her way, taking the path that forked to the left. This had to happen soon.

"I love you," she suddenly said out loud to the dark tunnels. There—practice. That was easy enough to say. Just three small words. Or she could say it to him in French. _Je t'aime. _Would he like that better? Or maybe Russian, since that was his native language. But she didn't know how to say anything in Russian.

Whatever. It didn't really matter to him, she was sure. As long as he heard and understood, it would probably have the same effect.

As she neared the door, she said it again. "I love you." Then she shook her head. "I love you, Erik." He would probably like that better. There was no way for him to purposefully misunderstand that.

After some stairs and another hallway, she was at the door, and she dug in her pocket for the key. However, she paused and listened. Erik was singing. Her cheeks flushed, and she pressed her ear to the door, wanting to savor the sound for as long as possible. She hadn't heard him sing in months, and his voice brought all of the memories flooding back to her. She remembered the first time she had heard him sing—she had literally fallen to the floor. And there were all those times his voice had coaxed her into relaxation, into sleep…But she wasn't feeling the least bit sleepy now.

He continued for several minutes. There was no piano accompaniment, leading her to believe that he was just singing while he worked on something to pass the time, and that thought brought a huge grin to her face. Anytime something like this happened—something that made him more human and more vulnerable—she fell in love with him a little bit more.

As he sang, she heard the faint strains of an orchestra reply, and she glanced up into the black ceiling.

Living underneath the Opera House was strange. Sometimes she could hear rehearsals going on—sometimes performances. She had been supposed to sing up there, but she hadn't ever gotten the chance. Two days ago, when Erik had approached her with the idea of starting up her voice lessons again, she had said,

"But I don't think I should go back to the Opera House. Not—not after all that's happened."

And to her surprise, he had agreed. "Perhaps that is best."

It made her sad to think that she wouldn't be able to rehearse with the company or spend those rare rehearsals with Meg, but considering what she had been through there and what she had put them through, she thought it unwise to go back in and ask for her spot back. It had been over six months since she had left, and that absence was too long to lie about. Maybe one day she would go find Meg and try to rekindle that friendship…but right now she was so focused on building up her relationship with Erik that she was willing to let the friendship slide into second place.

She was excited to sing again. She wanted to start earning real money for them to use. Right now, she was just using a card Erik had given her, and she didn't like that at all. She had a little bit in her savings from her job at the office, but it wasn't much, and she knew that she would have to start earning a lot more if she wanted to make all of her fantasies into reality.

Her heart skipped a couple beats as she thought of what was nestled in the bags. She had seen them at the grocery store and had grabbed them all, unsure of how Erik would respond. But she had to try—the sunlight had felt too good on her face and the warm summer air had smelled too sweet.

Suddenly she realized that Erik had stopped singing, and she shook her head a little. She had been standing out in the dark for a long time. Quickly, she unlocked the door and pushed it open.

"Hi!" she called to the house. "I'm back!"

The house was silent for a moment, and then he stepped around by the piano and into the front room. She smiled at the sight of him. He was wearing his mask; she was still working on that. She had to be patient. Almost forty years of abuse, both mental and physical, weren't going to be forgotten in a few short months.

"Hi," she said again. "Sorry it took so long. The line was—" She paused and frowned. "Didn't you…? Hey!" Quickly, she ran over to the kitchen, the scent of burning food filling her nose. She set her bags down on the counter top and opened the oven, coughing a little as a cloud of foggy smoke engulfed her. She shut it and turned the heat off, her eyes watering a little. Erik had followed her and was standing in the entryway.

She sighed, running her hands to smooth down her hair. "Did you forget to take it out after an hour like I asked?"

He paused and shifted his weight guiltily. "I was…occupied," he said distantly.

Perhaps she should have known better. It wasn't as if he was interested in the food.

"Okay. That's okay." She took a breath of air and then opened the oven again, quickly pulling out the pan with an oven mitt. Now she had to think of something else to make…and she had spent all morning getting this ready…Why didn't he remember? It was the only thing she had asked him to do while she was out…

No, it wouldn't do to get upset over a burned meal. With Erik, they couldn't have normal couple arguments—like who was stealing the blankets or him not putting his dishes away or leaving things lying around. There were so many bigger things, and she had to remember that. Those small things would make him unnecessarily upset.

"I'll just make something else," she said, giving him a smile. "Something easy."

He watched her. "I ruined it."

She waved her hand. "That's fine. It really is. It's just food. Don't worry about it."

He left, and she pulled out more pans, making a mental note to never leave him in charge of meals. When everything was ready and being kept warm, she went back to the front room. Erik had disappeared again, and she went over to the room by the piano. The door was ajar, and he was inside. She leaned against the door frame and watched him for a while.

That door had not been opened for nearly two months after she returned. When she had finally asked Erik about it, he had merely pointed and said, "Look." And she had. It was an office of sorts, with a large desk and built-in bookshelves on the walls. When she entered it that day, everything had been covered in thick dust and grime. It had been rather anticlimactic, she remembered, as she had expected something out of a horror movie—maybe a gruesome science lab or torture chamber or something. But the room was still a little nerve-wracking. Covering his desk had been lots of scattered papers, and she had gathered some up to look. They were all similar. An unfamiliar man was pictured in the top left hand corner, and the paper was riddled with notes. Then, at the bottom of each one, scrawled in Erik's distinctive handwriting, was a word in red: _Completed. _That was followed by a written sum of money. When she had realized what they were, she had thrown them down and turned to hurry out of the room, not wanting to know more.

A glimmer of dull white had caught her eye, and she had stopped to peer into the far corner of the room. Dirty white fabric was there, almost like it had been attempted to be stuffed out of sight. She had picked it up, and the wedding dress had taken form. A bundle of dead, crumbly flowers had fallen out of its folds. The dress had been damaged considerably, ripped and frayed and grimy. It had delicate lace sleeves—one torn right through—and an embroidered waist. She had tossed it back down and left the room.

The office was clean now, and all of those objects were gone. She had never asked what he had done with the dress and papers—burned them, she hoped.

"Dinner's ready," she said. He ignored her, obviously uninterested.

After watching him rifle through books for a minute, she said, "I went and walked in the park for a little bit today, before I went grocery shopping."

He paused and glanced at her then. "Ah."

"It was nice," she said. "It was at that park you saw me on Christmas Eve, remember? You scared me so much! I can't believe it's been more than a year. Time's gone so fast. Thankfully it's been a really nice summer so far. It was an awful spring and winter. Anyway, I think I might have gotten sunburned." She laughed and watched him again for a few moments.

"Maybe one day you could come with me," she suggested hesitantly.

He tensed immediately. "No. That is not a good idea."

"Well, we wouldn't go during the day, obviously," she said, entering the room and perching on the edge of the desk. "We'd go at night, or around sunset. It'd be fun. Romantic." Did she sound silly? Maybe a little bit.

"I doubt that."

"You never know," she said. "Please just think about it, maybe? It would mean a lot to me."

He paused. "Perhaps."

That was good enough for her. She grinned and threw her arms around him. It always took a moment, but his thin arms cautiously rested around her as well, and she looked up at him, letting him see her look. He watched her carefully, and she wondered if he could feel her heart pounding.

None of her best moves had worked on him—and they had all worked on Raoul countless times. But she had to keep remembering that Erik was _not _Raoul…

He pulled away, and she huffed on a silent sigh. It had started a while ago—she had a secret fantasy brewing in her thoughts. They would be close, and he would lean down and kiss her, gently, and then she would be able to say it. But Erik had proved to be incorrigible, so much so that sometimes she wondered if she just ought to do it herself and get it over with. However, Christine wasn't sure she wanted to do that. Maybe as a last resort…

She felt that if Erik thought he had initiated something that she enjoyed, he would try other things. She didn't want to have to spell everything out for him. It would probably make him feel good to know that he had instigated such a big step and she had responded positively, which would hopefully lead to similar things in the future. Erik might not be like Raoul at all, but he was still a man, and Christine was becoming more and more aware of the masculine ego that she would occasionally have to stroke. She was hoping that letting him kiss her first would make him feel better about himself and about their relationship.

"Christine?"

She blinked. "What?" He was looking at her, appearing uncomfortable.

"You are staring at me." His long fingers went to his mask, to ensure it was there.

"Oh—oh, sorry." She shook her head. "I didn't realize. I was just thinking. Sorry." She cleared her throat hastily. "Well, dinner's ready, like I said. Let's go."

After being around her for weeks, Erik had learned to simply humor her when it came to food. He followed her and let her put a plate in front of him. Christine sat down next to him and smiled, smoothing the pretty blue tablecloth.

The underground house was finally starting to look a little bit like a home. She had changed out all of the dark, gloomy décor for nicer, brighter things, and though Erik had grumbled and had thrown his hands up in the air and snapped, "_women" _when she had put white sheets and a dark green bedspread on the bed, he never took action to physically remove things or get them out of the way. The house felt brighter, warmer, and more welcoming.

Still…she would not stay here forever. She was trying to be patient with this, but she wanted a house with sunshine and windows that opened.

Between bites, she said, "Didn't you say one time that you had other apartments in the city?"

"I sold them months ago," he said, pushing his food around the plate. "I had no use for them."

"Oh. Well…" She got up and went back to the kitchen, pulling out the pamphlets from the bags. Erik watched her closely as she returned and put them in front of her. They were real estate brochures, houses for sale and for rent, apartments, condominiums, all sorts of things—but they were all above ground, and that was the important thing. Erik stared at them, making no move to rifle through them.

"I was just thinking," she said hurriedly, unnerved by his silence. "I mean, it doesn't have to be right away. We could look for however long you like to find something good. I looked through them on the bus for a few minutes. There's a house in this one…" She reached over and flipped through the flimsy pages. "Yeah, there's this house right here—it's small and kind of out of the city. Isn't it pretty? But like I said, we can look for however long you need. I'm not going to force you to move. Just…whatever. It's fine." She blushed and went back to her food, feeling guilty for pushing such a huge issue on him so quickly.

After a moment, she saw Erik's long fingers reach out, and he picked one up, looking through it. He didn't say anything, but the blush disappeared, and she smiled at him again, hope for their future bubbling through her.

* * *

In the end, it was as awkward and unexpected as everything in their relationship always had been.

She had given up trying to kiss him and had resigned herself to waiting until they married—then he would _have _to kiss her. Her best tricks and ideas had failed her. Erik was unyielding. Maybe he thought she would reject him, but she had given him every sign and every suggestion outside of flatly telling him that she wanted to.

They had started up her voice lessons again, and Erik had managed to arrange an audition next month. It was for a show in a smaller theater, and it wouldn't be a long-term engagement, just the one production. Still, she was feeling nervous and excited about the prospect of singing again, and Erik wanted her voice to become perfect once again. He still hadn't let go of that dream for her to become a world-renowned singer. She would sing for him and audition and hopefully perform, and if her career took off, she would follow it until she was unhappy.

One evening, they had just finished their lesson, and she was sitting by him and humming vaguely, glad to be back in such a familiar place. It had taken less time than she had anticipated to shape up her voice again. She wasn't yet back to where she had been before, but Erik didn't seem worried about that, so neither was she.

As she sat there, Erik played, and she envisioned her future, closing her eyes. It would be her and Erik…and music…in a house above ground, and she would sing for him, and maybe he would publish some of his music and let the world hear him one more time. Maybe they could travel. She would like that—perhaps she could take Erik to Sweden and show her familiar places. She could teach him Swedish.

And that future was good to her. It was everything she had wanted; a husband and music, and she would have a husband who understood the music better than she. Christine smiled.

Something briefly brushed up against the corner her mouth, and she opened her eyes in surprise.

"I am sorry," Erik said immediately, turning away from her. "I shouldn't have…"

"Did you just kiss me?" she asked blankly, shocked.

"I—Erik shouldn't have dared…But you looked very beautiful, and I…"

The piano forgotten, she put her arms around his neck, forcing him to look back at her.

"I'm so glad you did," she said earnestly. "Can we try again?"

Even though he looked stunned, he let her lean up, and she kissed him softly. It wasn't very good, as most of his mouth was covered by his mask. She ended up pressing her lips to that spot underneath his mouth, his impersonal mask pressing up against her skin and nose.

She pulled back, and he released a shuddering little breath.

"If you took your mask off, it would be better," she suggested quietly, hopefully.

He raised a hesitant hand to the ties and watched her, maybe looking for some flicker of fear or disgust…but he wouldn't find it on her face.

"Don't scream," he suddenly whispered hoarsely. "You may cry or faint or run…but don't scream."

The words were hurtful. "No, I would—Erik, why would you even think…"

The mask was lowered slowly, and she smiled again and kissed him properly without hesitation. She could feel him inhale swiftly, and it felt good to be kissing him like this after months of waiting. And when she embraced him and he pressed his bare face into her curls, she said those words out loud to him.

"I love you, Erik."

He let out a quiet, strangled sob, and it made her eyes fill with tears to realize that the cold, violent, unfeeling Phantom had been so affected by three small words. Her heart ached to think of what he could have accomplished if only he had had someone who loved him. But she was there, and she loved him, and when he whispered his reply into her curls, she cried with him.

* * *

It was a hot summer evening. The air seemed to hang low to the ground, and waves of heat were drifting up. Christine had shed her usual layers for some shorts and a light shirt, and though she was at first embarrassed by her pale, white skin—not at all fashionable these days—Erik had seemed positively dizzy at the sight, which left her grinning secretly. As long as he thought she was beautiful, she could ignore everyone else.

The grass was prickly and was poking her legs, and she shifted a little as she arranged the flowers. It was dusk, and the fading sunlight seemed to draw out all the delicious summer smells—hot air and warm grass and the sickly-sweet smell of the flowers. She hummed a little as she worked, and some of her curls fell out of their pins and tickled her cheek. She brushed them aside and glanced around her shoulder, smiling. Erik was several feet away, standing near a tall, towering pine tree, which cast a dark shadow that he had been drawn to. She had been waiting weeks for this moment, and now it was here, and she hadn't overestimated the feelings of love and gratitude she felt. Erik was watching her carefully as well as keeping an eye out for nearby people, but it was getting dark, and she wasn't sure if many people wanted to visit a graveyard after sundown.

"_Hej, Pappa,_" she said softly, sweeping away the dirt on the headstone with her hand. It was small, square, and gray, with large block letters that read GUSTAVE DAAE.

"Sorry I haven't visited in so long," she said. "Things have been kind of crazy. Did you know I'm getting married tomorrow? Probably." She looked at the ring on her left hand. "I'm so excited. Erik was so funny about it, though. I mean, he didn't even really propose to me. I had to ask him—I asked him when he was going to propose, and he just kept staring at me and asking things like, 'You really want to marry me?' He said that like ten times. It was funny. Poor guy." She laughed a little. "Well, I couldn't wait anymore. If I waited for him he probably would've taken like twenty years to ask me. And I want to marry him. I do."

She looked back at Erik, and her heart swelled at the sight. It was darker now, but she could still see him.

"It's been kind of hard," she murmured, looking back to the headstone and lightly tracing the letters. "He doesn't have any papers or anything—like no birth certificate or identification. At first he said he didn't even care if we were legally married. But I want to be. Maybe it's stupid, but I want everyone in the world to know that we're really married. So he had to get some papers for himself, and it's taken longer than I thought. But they're here finally."

Christine paused and straightened the flowers once more. "I really wish you were here," she said, staring ahead, not willing to cry the night before her wedding. "I miss you a lot still. You could play for us tomorrow—Erik would probably play, too. I think he's kind of competitive. He wouldn't want you upstaging him." She giggled, rubbing at her eyes. "But you're both equal to me."

Carefully, she brought her knees up to her chest and set her chin on them, the hot summer breeze swirling through and then disappearing. Far away, she could hear the rumble of traffic. A dog was barking.

"I'm sorry for what I did," she said. "I could've tried harder, and you could've been here today. But—but you're with _Moder _now, and that's what you wanted." She paused. "I think I understand now. Because of Erik.

"And I know you wanted me to marry Raoul," she continued. "He's such a good man. But…but I couldn't. Erik is...he's—well, Erik. But I love him, and I'm so happy, and I think that's what you would want. I know things aren't going to be perfect or…easy. He's a hard guy to understand sometimes."

It definitely wasn't going to be easy, she thought. Christine was perfectly aware of the path ahead of her. Just a week ago they had had a huge argument that resulted in angry tears and slammed doors—it was about something stupid. She couldn't really even remember what it had started out as, but Erik had soon warped her words and made it about his face, shouting that he wasn't fooled by her and that he knew she wanted to leave; '_escape the monster.' _She knew that those arguments were probably going to be a regular occurrence. They had made up several hours later, of course, and hopefully nothing would ever go permanently wrong when situations like that happened.

She sighed. "But he's so sweet most of the time. He really is. He was the one who suggested coming here tonight. Here—let me get him." Then she stood, brushed the grass off of her shorts, and turned to motion to him. He came slowly, his limp still just barely there, crawling out of the shadows like the Phantom she had first known him as. She didn't think he would be able to ever shake some of his habits, but she had plenty of her own faults, and so it was only fair.

When he was next to her, she slipped her hand into his, smiling widely and leaning up. It had taken him some days to realize what this motion meant, but now he knew, and he obliged and leaned down for an awkward kiss. It always was with his mask on, but she wouldn't ask him to take it off now, because he would refuse.

His gloves were off because of the heat, and his skin was cool against hers. She could feel his ring brushing against her fingers; it made her smile again as he pulled away.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" she asked. "Is Nadir still coming?"

He nodded. Nadir Khan had agreed to be the witness, as the law required one. She was worried about Erik being married in a mask—that probably wasn't allowed. But when she had mentioned it to him he had told her not to worry. _No one will stop me if I wish to marry you_. The comment had made her shiver and laugh at the same time. As long as nothing harmful or illegal was done to anyone else, she would be fine.

"And you?" he said, bringing her hand up and pressing the palm to his mouth. His breath washed over her skin, and she blushed happily. "Is there anything else you require?"

She shook her head. "I'm all set." Of course it wasn't going to be the wedding of her childhood dreams, but somehow she didn't seem to care anymore. However, she had managed to keep a few easy traditions alive. She had a silver coin and a gold coin to put into her shoes—she had explained the Swedish tradition to Erik. They were from her parents, to ensure that she would never go without. Erik, having no preference or any special traditions to keep alive, had nothing to complain about. She was sure that he just wanted to marry her and didn't care how it was done.

It was almost completely dark now, but the heat lingered like a haze. There was a fading strip of bright orange that was falling behind the skyline. Very, very faintly, she could see the outline of the moon. Despite the weather, she shivered a little and stepped closer to Erik, wrapping an arm around his skinny waist and looking down toward the grave.

Erik noticed. "Are you cold? Perhaps you wish to return."

"No, it's fine. It's really nice out here." She leaned her head against his arm. "But we can go back soon if you want."

"Yes. You will sing for me tonight, won't you? I will not teach you; I only wish to hear your voice."

She smiled. "If you want me to."

Another warm breeze rushed through, rustling the grass and leaves, blowing more curls out of her pins and into her eyes. Erik carefully pulled them away, and his long fingers felt good on her skin.

As they stood there, her mind drifted back to words Erik had spoken to her. _Some people are an anathema. Some people deserve to die. _Did her father deserve to die? No...she wouldn't believe that, no matter the bad things he had done. But Erik? Should he have died? Instantly, she protested. _No. _But he had done a lot of bad things. Most likely, he had done bad things she didn't know about, that she probably never would know about. And yet, as he stood next to her, all she could feel was gratitude and love that he was still breathing. That seemed to be the question. There didn't seem to be any black and white, no solid good and evil like in her fairy tales. The handsome prince hadn't married her. She glanced up to Erik. He would have been the villain, and in any normal fairy tale he would have died, but he was there with her, and she had a ring on her finger.

He touched her gently. "Christine?"

"Yeah. Sorry." She smiled up at him and took his hand. "Let's go."

Maybe she was still oversimplifying it all. She didn't know. Somehow it didn't seem important anymore. This was life, and she was living.

_Fin_


End file.
